


Your Rage and Mine

by EstherRuth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Sansa Stark, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jonsa, Dark Sansa Stark, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gangs, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, I mean they're sympathetic but they've seen some shit and can be ruthless when needed, Jealous Jon Snow, Jon and Sansa are ready to kick ass and take names, Mob AU, Organized Crime, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Possessive Jon Snow, Revenge, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstherRuth/pseuds/EstherRuth
Summary: It shouldn’t have surprised him, he knew. When he’d first gotten the tip that Littlefinger had Sansa in the Vale and working in his club The Mockingbird, he knew to suspect the worst. But knowing and seeing were two different things, and as he watched Sansa, his little sister, dancing on stage with a group of lecherous men tossing money at her and cheering her on, he felt a rage boiling in his veins.----Sansa is working as a stripper in Petyr Baelish's club when Jon comes to rescue her. After their losses and years apart, Sansa is determined to take Littlefinger down. Jon is determined to help her, and their relationship changes in ways they never expected.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 73
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is a modern universe setting within the world of organized crime. The Starks have suffered tragedy, and both Jon and Sansa carry baggage because of it. If you read my first multichapter fic you know the idea started as dark but was actually pretty fluffy. This one is darker, with a Dark Jon and Dark Sansa, at least to a certain extent. They're not evil or anything, just damaged and ready to exact revenge. And eventually giving in to forbidden feelings, of course ;). They will have a happy ending whatever angst may come.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, he knew. When he’d first gotten the tip that Littlefinger had Sansa in the Vale and working in his club _The Mockingbird_ , he knew to suspect the worst. But knowing and seeing were two different things, and as he watched Sansa, his little sister, dancing on stage with a group of lecherous men tossing money at her and cheering her on, he felt a rage boiling in his veins.

And yet, to see her was a miracle, even under these circumstances. And he took a moment to look at her. Her hair was still its shade of red. He’d heard it had been dyed black at some point, but no longer it seemed. He’d read in the files that she had lived under the name Alayne Baelish and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Littlefinger was scum, but did he really want people to think he employed his own _daughter_ in a strip club? Jon didn’t care to find out.

And he couldn’t help, as she swayed in her barely-there lingerie, to take in the lines of her body, how she’d grown taller than the last he had seen her. Her pale skin, milky white stomach flashed red and blue beneath the changing lights. He felt an old, familiar stirring within him, and an old, familiar, accompanying shame like he used to feel whenever he gazed on his sister Sansa for too long. He didn’t have time for that now, and he looked to her face. She was radiant as always, and she’d grown even more so, the elegant features of her face more matured, but she was pursing her lips in a way she always used to do when she was trying not to frown. He couldn’t see her eyes. She wasn’t looking in his direction, nor to the men around her stage slapping dollar bills on the table. He couldn’t blame her for that. He wondered what would happen if she looked up and saw him now, across the room. If her shock might give him away. 

At that thought he made himself start moving, turning away from her stage and headed toward the main bar where a (clothed) woman was tending. But he could still see Sansa in his periphery, he never meant to let her out of his sight again if he could help it. The bartender, a slight woman with brown hair, looked at him with narrow eyes and asked: “What’ll it be?”

He clocked that she had an accent he couldn’t place, not immediately. “Whiskey,” he said. He wasn’t going to get drunk, but maybe a little to take the edge off; help him relax when he wanted nothing more than to track down Littlefinger and rip him apart. He had to keep his cool. He knew that. He learned something about himself in the years they’d been apart, that when his emotions got the best of him, he could screw things up. He had a temper that could get him into trouble. And he couldn’t afford to screw this up. He had to keep it together for Sansa.

And he had to get her alone. He eyed around the club, staking out places before he landed on the private VIP room and gulped. He slammed back his whiskey and the woman at the bar raised an eyebrow in silent question. He shook his head; he couldn’t afford more liquor. He nodded toward the VIP room and looked to the bartender. “How much for the room?” Her eyes narrowed further. She thought he was a creep. But he couldn’t blame her on that, really. He felt like one. “A thousand, cash,” she said.

_Shit,_ he thought. He had more than enough, but he really hoped not to spend so much all in one night, all in one place before he’d even managed to get Sansa out of here. But he couldn’t think of another way. He took out his money, and turned back to Sansa briefly, dancing on stage five. When he looked back at the bartender she was practically glaring, and he pushed his money across the bar to her. He swallowed back his disgust. “I’ll take the room. And the redhead on stage five.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa reunite and talk.

The bartender sent him off with another woman, in a flimsy robe and auburn hair a similar shade to Sansa’s to escort him to the VIP room. He took in as many details of the place as he could. Hallways, emergency exits, a backdoor. The men in the audience were drunk either on booze or lust and didn’t present much of a threat, but he kept himself on guard. Things could turn in the space of a second. There was a bouncer outside the VIP room, but Jon was surprised to see it was a very formidable looking woman with short, cropped blond hair, rather than a man. Did that make the dancers more comfortable? He eyed her as they approached. He felt uneasy, not so much because she was a woman, but because she had a few good inches on him, was clearly strong and cut an intimidating figure, and he worried how swiftly she could lay him flat. He calmed himself, remembered all the skills he’d picked up over the years, he might be able to headlock her and leave her unconscious without any fight if he was careful. He also could use his relatively short height to his advantage. He could get lower on the floor; this woman would struggle if she tried to get under him.

But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. The woman who had walked him over and the bouncer exchanged nods and the door to the room opened.

The room was tacky, like Littlefinger himself. The walls were painted red and there were matching draperies, with gold accents, the sofa cushions were velvet-lined; beads adorned all around him. _Noveau riche,_ he thought and nearly chuckled. That’s what Sansa’s mother Catelyn would have called it. If she were alive to see him here now, she’d surely kill him, wouldn’t she? But wouldn’t she understand? He was there to save Sansa, not to leer at her. But had she _known_? Had she seen the way he looked at Sansa in unguarded moments? Maybe. Maybe that was why she hated him so much.

He struggled to put those thoughts to the side. He needed to focus. Sansa would be here any minute. The women had left him alone and he sat on one of the sofas. He tried to think of how he’d approach her, what he would say to her. It was hard to imagine. It had taken nearly all his mental and emotional faculties to get himself here and he hadn’t spent much time thinking on what he would have to say when they came face to face. That might have been too hopeful to entertain before now.

But now this was real.

Then Sansa opened the door and walked in. She was looking in his general direction, but not directly at him, he realized. Her gaze instead seemed to fix on something on the wall behind him. His heart lurched. She didn’t want to be here. Well, of course she didn’t, but he hated to put her in this position, where she was likely fearing the stranger who wanted her alone in a room. He tried to say something then, but his voice stalled. Some part of him was terrified. He couldn’t afford to screw this up, he reminded himself.

She turned away from him. She was in a slinky black robe that she started to remove, exposing her back to him. At least she still had lingerie and _oh fuck,_ he shouldn’t be sitting, because now she was going to come over and try to straddle his lap and he suddenly jumped to his feet. She turned, surprised at the motion it seemed, and they locked eyes. Hers went wide, as he imagined his own did, and she gaped at him, mouth open. She looked like she would speak but instead she closed her mouth, apparently struggling for words just as he did.

He cleared his throat and said, quietly, because he couldn’t be sure what the bouncer outside might hear, and he couldn’t be sure if he could speak at greater volume, regardless: “Sansa.”

And her beautiful blue eyes filled with tears. “ _Jon?”_ she said like it was a question, in disbelief, and then she was moving closer and hugging him and he was holding her to him, and he couldn’t believe it. She was here, alive, in his arms. He’d never truly given up hope, but it was still almost more than he could fathom. His vision blurred and he realized he was crying too.

“Jon,” she said again, as if acclimating herself to the reality of his presence. She pulled back slightly, not enough to leave his arms, but enough to look at him. Her eyes flitted over his face and he imagined she was taking note of how he’d changed since they were together, as he had with her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m here for you, Sansa.” Though he thought that much was obvious. Or did she think he’d just come here and stumbled upon her? That thought made his stomach turn. “I’m taking you home,” he said and moved his arms from around her back to take her hands in his.

She had a sad, almost vacant look in her eyes at his words. “There is no home anymore, Jon.” He hated how resigned she sounded. As if she was familiar with a world that had ground her down and degraded her. But he knew that was the reality of it.

“We will be _together_ Sansa. That is home,” he said, voice shaking. His emotions were all over the place and he had to keep them in check. He wasn’t the same person she knew before. Before their father was shot in a back alley in King’s Landing, left to bleed out and die alone. Before they had lost one another, and Robb and Catelyn were killed by a rival gang in the Riverlands. Before Arya, Bran, and Rickon disappeared. No. He was now a man with rage storming inside him, ruthless, ready to kill anyone without mercy if they harmed his family. But he had to keep it together.

“Oh, Jon,” she said. She was touched by his words but didn’t know whether to believe them, that much he could tell.

“We need to get out of here Sansa,” he said. He didn’t know how much time they had. He wasn’t sure which strategy to take, the emergency exit, a backdoor, an abandoned hallway. How to get her out without rousing suspicion.

“Jon we can’t just leave,” she interrupted his thoughts. He looked at her in shock.

“Sansa, what—”

“ _Littlefinger_ expects to see me at the end of every night, he takes my tips,” she said and his blood boiled.

“I’m not letting you near him,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

She stared hard at him. “You are not _letting_ me do anything, Jon. If you want to get me out of here, you need to listen to me.” She was firm with him. Resolute. And he knew she wasn’t the same person from before either. No. She was a grown woman now and had survived this long. He knew she was right; he would have to listen.

“Then, what do we do?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. Then she seemed to look around the room and realized how little clothing she wore. She took a step away from him and grabbed her robe. Suddenly reminded of her bareness, he looked away and felt his face turning red. She tied the robe back around her waist and looked at him. “Right now, you need to leave.”

“What? No,” he said and felt on the verge of yelling but spoke in a fierce whisper.

“Listen to me. I’m not telling you to go far. Do you have any men with you?” she asked.

“A few,” he said. Together, they were a group of four, he didn’t want to risk it with more. “But they’re not in the club right now. They’re awaiting word.”

“Good, go to them. I have to finish my shift, and then I’ll meet with Littlefinger and after he leaves, I’ll sneak out.”

“Sansa, I can’t leave you alone here. What if you’re caught? It’s too dangerous.” He pleaded.

“I’m not alone. I have Brienne and Shae.” She told him.

“Who?”

“The bouncer at the door is Brienne. Shae is the bartender,” she said.

“Sansa, they work for Littlefinger—”

“They work _for me._ Littlefinger just thinks they work for him,” she said.

He paused. He felt confused, surprised, and impressed. “Are you sure? Are you sure you can trust them?” He didn’t know if he could take her word for it, though. This was such a big risk that he hadn’t been prepared to take.

“Yes, Jon. I trust them with my life, and they are the only ones since…” she didn’t need to finish. He knew what she meant. The air felt heavy with it. “I need you to trust me; trust that I can handle this part, okay?” she asked, but he realized then that he had no choice but to do as she asked. Not when she knew her surroundings better than he did.

Reluctantly, with a fear this was the wrong choice, he nodded. She stared at him for a moment, making sure he meant it. “Okay. Now, I want you to go. Go to your men, I assume you have a car.”

“Black sedan, 2009.” He said.

“Good, you and your men get in the car and drive to Sixth Brookstone Street. There’s a bridge with a big shoulder next to the road and no one will see you if you park there. What time is it?” she asked, but she grabbed his wrist and looked at his watch, and he had to put effort into not jumping a little that she was touching him so suddenly. “Eleven,” she said and released his wrist. 

God, had it only been about an hour ago he first walked into the place? “My shift ends at 12:00 and I’ll have to meet with him and them. I should be able to meet you there with some things, Brienne, and Shae with me by 2:00. If I’m not there by three, I may be in some trouble, go to the Madison Hotel, it’s five blocks from here. I’m in room 205. It’s Baelish’s hotel so you’ll have to be careful, ask the front desk for Brienne. The room’s in her name and he thinks I’m on another floor.”

He could barely stand to think what she might mean by _I may be in some trouble_. But he doesn’t let himself linger on it, instead taking in all her details. It seemed she had things well thought out. She wasn’t helpless as he imagined, even if she was in danger, and he felt guilt for underestimating her. She wasn’t a girl anymore. He felt sad and proud all at once. He nodded. “You’re sure?” he asked. He didn’t like it, but if she was sure…

“I am, do you have a burner?”

He pulled out the phone and handed it to her. She punched in a number. “Officially, that’s Brienne, and that’s how I’m putting it in your phone. If it’s after three and you can’t find me at the hotel room text me, if you can, without revealing too much if you can help it. Or if you’re in trouble. But I think you’ll be safe there. Don’t call unless it’s an absolute last resort, okay?”

“Okay,” he said and tried to prepare himself for the imminent goodbye, however brief it would (hopefully) be.

“Will you be able to find it? Sixth Brookstone Street?” she asked.

“I’m sure I will.”

“Okay, good. You should go,” she said haltingly, and he thought she was as reluctant to part as he. He looked at her and felt his chin trembling. He pulled her into another hug. He had to keep it together. He _had_ to.

“If you’re sure,” he said again, more to himself than her. He didn’t want to fail her by leaving her here. He felt her nod against him.

“I’m sure.” She said.

Before he let go of her and she opened the door for them to step out, he said what he’d wanted to say from the moment he spotted her: “I love you.”

She smiled at him, just a slight upward turn of her lips. “I love you too.” She said and kissed his cheek. “Now, go.”

And so, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa begin their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I play fast and loose with geography for my convenience! I imagine this is set in the U.S., though with some canon-names for places like the Vale, Greywater, Winterfell etc.

It was after he had left her, when he sat with his men in the car underneath the bridge, that the fear and doubt came up again. Had he really done the right thing in leaving her there? If she could trust this Shae and Brienne, why hadn’t they gotten her out already? He wondered if maybe they’d been biding their time and waiting for the right moment before he came. The details she had in her head made it seem that way, but he couldn’t be sure. And what if he’d fucked up her plans irreparably? But, no, she was emphatic on what he should do.

But what if she didn’t show up? As the clock ticked by and he waited for 2:00 a.m., he thought he could never forgive himself if something happened to her now, after he had her in his arms and let her go.

“Lost in thought?” Ed said from next to him in the passenger seat and he looked over at his friend.

“A little,” he replied. Ed snorted.

Tormund, from the back seat, piped in. “She’ll be here.”

“And you can be so sure?” Jon looked at him through the rearview mirror.

“I can,” Tormund grinned. “We redheads are lucky, kissed by fire.” Jon sighed and felt the smallest smile pulling at his lips at that. He wished he could have Tormund’s brand of optimism.

The men he had with them were his team; those he trusted without doubt. Not just his men, but his brothers. His friends. Ed, Tormund, Gendry. They were the only ones he trusted enough for this mission. Aside from Sam, but he wasn’t about to bring Sam here into something potentially dangerous right after his wife Gilly had given birth to their son, whom they called Little Sam. And Sam had done enough for this rescue, he had gotten the information with his hacking and other tech skills none of the rest of them could begin to understand. They needed him for his brains, not his brawn.

Gendry, usually a quiet type like Jon himself, spoke up then. “So, what’s she like? You haven’t said much about her.”

That much was true. He avoided talking about Sansa to others most of the time, mostly out of fear that if he spoke about her, people would hear and see that he didn’t talk about her—didn’t _feel_ about her—the way a brother should a sister. He contemplated Gendry’s words. “She’s…different.” He said after a while. He couldn’t quite explain, neither to them nor to himself. She was still so familiar, but there seemed to be something about her that he couldn’t quite grasp. He wanted to hold onto it. Wanted to know and understand her as the woman she had become.

“She’d have to be, to survive,” Ed said. He wasn’t one to mince words, even when it was glum. He was like that more than Jon, even.

“She’d have to be,” Jon agreed.

\---

It was 2:25 and Jon was panicking when Sansa finally showed up with Brienne, Shae, and a black bag thrown over her shoulder. He was out of the car to greet her immediately. Hugging her close to him again. She hugged back. “I was worried sick,” he said and sucked in a breath. He felt like he was just learning how to breathe again now that he had her back with him safe.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she whispered, quiet enough he thought only he could hear. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “You’re here.”

They pulled apart and started to make introductions. But Jon was still looking at Sansa, needing to convince himself she was really here, and more than a little transfixed by the shining in her blue eyes when she looked at him. He cleared his throat and made himself turn his head slightly, indicating his men. “Sansa, this is Ed, Tormund, and Gendry. Guys, this is my sister, Sansa.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Gendry said.

“Hello,” Ed, taciturn, greeted and nodded, smiling.

Tormund stepped forward and slapped one hand on Jon’s shoulder, looking all the while at Sansa: “Honored to have another ginger in the group,” he said and laughed at his own joke. Sansa looked at Tormund strangely but smiled slightly, and Jon sent her an apologetic smile that made her own grow wider.

Sansa turned to the women she had brought with her, who stepped forward to her side. The women eyed Jon much as they had before, skeptically. Though earlier he would understand, he now felt a bit defensive. He was her _brother_ after all, who were they to look at him like he might do her harm? Another part of him was glad to see companions with Sansa who appeared fiercely protective, especially given Brienne’s intimidating nature.

“This is Brienne, my guard, and Shae,” she motioned to the women who in turn cast their narrowed glances to the men in his party, who unconsciously seemed to straighten their postures in response.

“It is an honor,” Tormund said with uncharacteristic weight, gazing at Brienne with what Jon thought was almost reverence. Brienne merely snorted and gave a slight tilt of her head.

“Pleased to meet you all,” Shae said then, neither looking nor sounding as if she meant it in the slightest. She was a tiny woman but her sharp gaze and tongue made her formidable. Again, Jon felt a mix of uneasiness and gratitude, if these women were truly to be trusted; and it would appear by helping Sansa get here they were, they’d likely be in life-threatening danger to Littlefinger once discovered.

“Shae,” Sansa said in a slight warning tone and Shae appeared to lower her hackles—slightly.

“How soon until he knows you’re gone, Sansa?” Jon asked. He wanted to get out of the state before that happened, and he was nervous that they were all standing out in the open here, however secluded the spot was.

“Probably at seven, that’s when he comes to check in on me,” she said, and Jon felt his body grow rigid unconsciously. The man kept her like a prisoner. That was what she was, though, wasn’t she? Not anymore.

“Where will we go?” Sansa asked, pulling Jon out of his homicidal fantasy. He liked, no, _loved,_ her phrasing. _We._ They were together, they were a we again.

He took a deep breath and began to explain to Sansa their plan. First, they had planned to drive out of state, further south—however wrong that felt. Tormund had secured a Free Folk safe house from his time with them, an east coast gang that had worked with Tormund and the Night’s Watch gang, giving Ed connections as well.

They only worked with gangs that cooperated; that were not hellbent on mindless destruction and would make allies to fight enemies. The Lannisters to the South had threatened territory that compromised all of them, and even now, the Families further South were considered a threat. That was due in no small part to Littlefinger, which had made their alliances that much easier. With Ed and the Night’s Watch, Tormund and the Free Folk, Sam’s connections as a Tarly, and Jon’s Stark blood (if not the name), they had built a steady network of support to call in now.

From there, they would move again, Jon only intended to stay for a day at the safe house. It was sufficient for a short while, but far too close for comfort. They would go west, to the Tarlys. Or more specifically, to Dickon, Sam’s little brother. Randyll, Sam’s father, was a prick, but Dickon was a good man, reliable like his brother, and as the favored Tarly son and Randyll’s heir, had a spacious estate of his own, secluded in the mountains. From there, they would load up on supplies and Dickon’s crew would help them, finally, move North, to Greywater.

“Greywater?” Sansa asked, raising her brow.

“Yes. Howland Reed—”

“Father’s friend,” she said.

“Yes. He has a huge estate out there and an underground compound to match. And Greywater is the center of the northern swamps. You’ll see it, Sans, it’s like a complex maze, even more than Father said. It is practically unreachable unless you know the area or your destination. He won’t find us there, Sansa.” He said, taking her hands in his again, and running his thumbs across her palm in soothing patterns.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said cautiously.

“Littlefinger has a long reach, but there’s almost no way. And with Howland’s men, and our men, if Littlefinger somehow found us, he’d be a dead man, I promise you.” Jon looked in her eyes, still as beautiful, still as deep, like he could drown, to make sure she really heard him.

She stared right back, intense, and Jon felt the warmth of her touch as she entwined her fingers with his. “And you mean for us to stay there?” How he wished they could go to the Stark Estate in Winterfell, but it had been burned to the ground, their ancestral home destroyed. But the North still welcomed them.

“Yes. I’ve been there a year and a half. My best friend, Sam, is there too. He’s the one who helped me find you, Sansa. You’ll be safe, I promise.” He told her, and he’d never sworn a vow he meant more than this. He would protect her with his life. As long as he was breathing, she would be safe.

But he wasn’t sure she believed him. She didn’t doubt his sincerity, he could tell. But she didn’t know whether he could fulfill that promise. That made his heart break, but he would have to prove it to her—that now they were together, and everything would be alright.

“Okay Jon. So, we should get moving now, yes?” she said, and he nodded, eagerly collecting her things and motioning Shae and Brienne for their bags to put in the trunk. As they made their way to the car, though, Sansa grabbed his arm mid-stride.

“Jon, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

His sister’s hard face from before returned. “Littlefinger—he’s a dead man either way.”

\---

“Why does it have to be me?” Ed drawled in exasperation from the back seat. Now, with extra passengers in the car, Tormund was sitting on Ed’s lap.

“You love it!” The giant redhaired man said and barked his hearty laughter as Ed shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Sansa, sat in the front seat on Brienne’s lap, looked back at Tormund and smiled, looking completely delighted. Jon felt as if his heart skipped a beat to see such joy on her face once more. He had to look back to the road, before he got too distracted by the beauty of his sister’s smile. That smile—it had always done things to him he would never admit to anyone.

And she _was_ different, at least in some ways. As he drove, her words from earlier about Littlefinger— _he’s a dead man either way_ —kept playing on repeat in his head. She had told him firmly with such conviction that it almost scared him. He could never have imagined Sansa, sweet gentle Sansa, to be so hungry for a man’s blood. Some part of him that he hated to admit was thrilled by it. Her rage stoked his, made him feel in some twisted way as if he were home. Perhaps, then, she would not be frightened by him if she knew the things he’d done to get here and the things he would do, should outlets for his anger present themselves. He didn’t want her to be frightened of him. He wanted her to feel safe and secure. There was a violence thrumming through his body now at all times, but such violence would never be directed toward her. No, it would only ever be directed toward their enemies. Because any enemy of hers was an enemy of his now.

Like Littlefinger. He wanted to ask her what the man had done to her. What happened that made her state those words to him that promised Littlefinger’s death. But he wasn’t sure he had the right to pry. Certainly, he could not do so now, in front of her companions and his men. At some point he figured he would have to ask. It was inevitable. He couldn’t keep those questions back for long.

He thought on how exactly they might exact their revenge on Littlefinger. In the back of his mind, he realized that strategically, going after the man may not be the best idea. Better, perhaps, to make their way for the northern swamps and never bother with him again. But if Sansa asked him—if Sansa wanted him to—he would, no matter his doubts. He’d do anything she asked of him.

\---

They’d reached the Free Folk safe house at nearly six in the morning, the first streaks of dawn breaking over the sky. He shuffled Sansa and her things immediately inside. He knew he was probably being paranoid but getting her behind protective concrete walls was important to him.

He realized absentmindedly that he had no idea of where to put Brienne and Shae, having not anticipated Sansa bringing guests along. “We’ll stay with her,” Shae said, as if daring Jon to disagree. Jon didn’t like that. He didn’t like the idea of these women he didn’t know staying in the same room as Sansa where he couldn’t keep watch. Was it foolish of him to bring them along, no matter if Sansa trusted them?

And he felt vaguely territorial too—he wanted to be the one who protected her, the one she trusted with her life. But she trusted him too, didn’t she? She must have—no matter what changes had brought in the years they were apart—or she wouldn’t have come with him. And they’d always shared a certain bond, even if they didn’t get to spend so much time together, mostly due to her mother. Catelyn hated Jon and never wanted him around, but Sansa she kept under closer guard than her other children, at least when it came to her half-brother. But he felt that the two of them always had this quiet understanding of one another. The other Stark children were all boisterous, loud, energetic. While Jon loved all his siblings and could join in plenty, he had always been more reserved, and Sansa was the same way. He was always the one who could read her best, even if he didn’t spend as much time with her as, say, Robb. Really, it was because he spent so much time watching her. He was attentive to her moods and needs.

Often when they were together, they would sit in silence, but it was never awkward. It was comforting, really, as if they had nothing to prove and could be content merely in each other’s presence. Sometimes, they would sit and read together. Sometimes, he would lay his head on her lap while she read, and she would brush her fingers soothingly through his hair. She was always gentle, nurturing. He remembered how she was with their younger siblings, Bran and Rickon, and even Arya. Well, when Arya would let her dote, which wasn’t very often, and she’d become annoyed with it pretty quickly. But Sansa was almost like a second mother when it came to Bran and Rickon. It was natural for her—to tend to their wounds when they were hurt, to guide them on their manners. Jon remembered how he always thought she would be a great mother. He remembered, shamefully, when he was still young enough that he couldn’t understand what it meant, imagining what it would be like to have a family with her.

Shaking himself out of the memories, he helped the women get settled, still uneasy with Shae and Brienne’s presence. “I’d like to speak with my sister alone, if you don’t mind,” he tried to say it politely, but he wasn’t sure if he had succeeded. Shae and Brienne looked to Sansa, who nodded for them to go.

When they left, he said: “Sansa, you don’t have to share a room with them. I can find somewhere else for them until we leave.” There were two beds in the room, one of the women would have to sleep on the floor anyway.

Sansa waved away his concern. “It’s perfectly fine, Jon. I don’t mind.”

_I do, I mind._ “Sansa, I don’t like them alone with you, where I can’t know you’re alright.”

“Jon, I thought you said you would trust me?”

“I do, I just don’t know if I can trust them, Sansa.”

“I trust them Jon, isn’t that enough?” She looked not so much exasperated but confused by his concern.

“I don’t like leaving you alone with people I don’t know. Can you blame me?” he asked and sighed.

She considered that for a moment, eyes flitting around the room before landing on the bed on which her bag was placed. “I suppose not. But it will be fine, Jon. They helped me get out—to get to you. That should put you at least a little at ease.” She looked back at him. “Besides, I…well, I don’t like to sleep alone, even if we’re here only for a day. I have nightmares.”

He could understand that very well. It unnerved him to think of Sansa suffering as he did, screaming and thrashing in bed at night. “I could stay with you, Sansa.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to really think of them and he looked away from her, embarrassed. They’d been reunited not even a day and he was trying to share a room with her?

_I’m only trying to protect her, that’s all_ , he insisted to himself. He was trying to protect her, but he wasn’t sure if that was his _only_ motivation, no matter how much he told himself it was so. What was wrong with him? What had made him this way?

She walked over to him and placed her hand delicately on his shoulder. He thought he would jolt at her touch but now, maybe because he was exhausted, he felt himself relax.

“It’s okay, Jon. You don’t have to do that, really. Shae and Brienne have kept me company plenty.” She told him soothingly. If she trusted them, he supposed he would have to as well. And he’d pretty much already granted them trust by bringing them along, hadn’t he? He truly hoped his tendency to give Sansa absolutely anything she wanted would not come back to bite them both in the ass.

But it was late—or early, rather—and they all needed sleep. He couldn’t argue it any longer. He nodded. “I’ll be just across the hall.” He’d pointed out his door earlier. “If you need anything…”

“I’ll come to you.”

“Okay, well you should get some rest. We should eat when we get up, then we’ll figure out when to leave, alright?”

“Okay,” she said and smiled at him. His stomach did a little flip at the sight. He pulled her toward him and placed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he said softly and made his way out the door.

In his bed, he still felt her warm skin beneath his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I gave Sansa Jon's line. I just liked the idea. And the seed for revenge has been planted. I wanted to give a little background on Jon and Sansa's relationship here. I've always felt that the two do have some commonalities--they can go off on their own and be introspective. I just think it makes sense that they could have a bond without necessarily spending a whole lot of time together. I also just love a pining Jon. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa grow closer. Sansa faces a tough goodbye.

**Two Years Before Ned Stark Went South…**

_Jon is wrestling with Rickon when Sansa finds him. She is standing off to the side, watching them warmly, but a bit stiffly, with her hands behind her back. Jon is sixteen, he’s two years away from adulthood, and why should it be that his little sister, of all people, scares him?_

_“You’re avoiding me,” she says, smirking at him, like she likes to see him flustered._

_“I’m not,” he says, and Rickon bounds off into another room, leaving them alone._

_Sansa tilts her head in disbelief. “You are.”_

_He doesn’t know what to say._

_She takes a deep breath, before softening her gaze. “Jon, it’s no big deal, really. If you just let me help you learn a few steps---it’s just dancing.” She says and shrugs, as if it were truly nothing._

_Jon doesn’t understand why it matters if he learns how to dance. His father had told all the kids that they had important guests coming—the Tullys were visiting the Starks. But Jon is not a Stark, and the Tullys are his stepmother Catelyn’s family. He doesn’t anticipate they’ll be any fonder of him than his father’s wife. Yet, even his father had insisted he learn to dance at least a little. And who better to teach him than Sansa?_

_Sansa, at fourteen, elegant and graceful. It’s like she doesn’t even have to try. Jon feels like a bumbling fool next to her. She practically drags him into an empty rec room on the Stark estate, turning on some music without lyrics he doesn’t recognize, but Sansa seems right at home with._

_She reaches out to grab his hand and he hesitantly joins her on their dancefloor. “Put your hands like this,” she says and brings one of his arms around her waist to rest at her back and clasps her other hand in his. “I can lead, just to start us off,” she suggests and Jon, at an utter loss on what to do, nods his head eagerly at her suggestion._

_They are close. He can feel her breath fan across his neck while she guides him to sway with her across the floor. He is staring down, hoping to keep from stepping on her feet or losing his balance._

_“Jon, it’s not that different from fighting,” she says, and he wonders what she thinks she knows of fighting, his sweet sister who cried when she accidentally stepped on a ladybug when she was six. Her disposition was not so different now. “Jon, look at my face, not at my feet.”_

_He looks up at her direction, and he thinks he feels his face heating. He is nervous, though she offers him an encouraging, warm smile. He is nervous and embarrassed, and he doesn’t understand why._

_(Except he does)._

_He pulls away when the song finishes. “Thanks, Sansa, but it’s just not my thing.” She looks a bit disappointed before a stubborn and triumphant smile crosses her lips._

_“One day,” she says and points at him, “I will get you on a dancefloor.”_

_“Maybe one day Sansa,” he says and tries to smile with her, “but not today.” She rolls her eyes at him and huffs playfully._

_He leaves the room and tries to swallow back the lump in his throat._

\---

Two weeks later, they were on Dickon Tarly’s estate in the mountains. Getting there hadn’t been easy. And he’s learned some things about Sansa that he didn’t know before. For instance, she had never, at twenty-one, properly learned how to drive. It was another thing that had been taken from her, Jon thinks. He wants to teach her, because she does have some rudimentary understanding, from secret lessons with Brienne and Shae. Littlefinger, of course, had not wanted her to know how to drive, as it could have made it so much easier to get away.

He found himself asking, along the road to Dickon’s, what he had suspected since that night he had found her—if she had already been plotting an escape. She nods, while they’re sitting by a fire, just the two of them. Sometimes, they camped out along the way—better to avoid major highways or be like sitting ducks in hotels. Sansa thought there was a distinct advantage there too, as Littlefinger would never expect her to take to the outdoors like this. Truthfully, in the past, Jon wouldn’t have either.

Still staring at the fire, Sansa tells him: “we were saving money over time, stashing it away, never leaving it with me, it would have been too risky.”

“What was your plan?” he finds himself asking. He can’t help but wonder. Did she think she would find him? Or Rickon, Bran, and Arya? Did she think to try, or had she given up any hope?

She looks over to him then, her blue eyes clear and intelligent. “Plane tickets—more fake names. I thought—” she pauses.

He doesn’t know what she is going to say, but it looks like whatever it was gave her conflict. “I thought maybe I would find you eventually, but I wanted to put as many miles between me and Littlefinger first.”

That’s understandable, but he’s glad to have her with him. He hopes the miles they’re gaining will be enough until they reach Greywater. Studying her, he thinks maybe she feels guilty that she was looking to get away before she was looking for _him_ , specifically, but it wasn’t as if she knew where he was. He had gone under the radar after their father had died. When he still thought he could save the rest of his family. When Robb was still alive. There were things he wanted to tell her, but he didn’t know how just yet.

\---

Sansa wants to know how Jon found her; she tells him once they’ve gotten to the Tarly estate. They are planning to stay a few weeks before moving, because Jon knows the next leg of that journey is possibly the most important—getting her North, that is the best way to keep her out of Littlefinger’s clutches.

“If you could find me, who else could find me?” she asks him. She has a determination that reminds him of when they were younger, but there’s a sharper edge to it now; an urgency that wasn’t there before.

“Sam is not just anybody, Sansa, and it took us a long time,” he tells her. He doesn’t want to tell her about how he managed to kidnap Jaime Lannister. How he tortured him and cut off his hand. He’d been a sniper in the military, and it was certainly put to use by the Lannisters when he returned from overseas. With one less hand, he was much less dangerous, and the man lost some of that hope he’d had in his eyes before Jon had mutilated him. It had gotten him to confess though, that his sister Cersei was no longer holding Sansa. It had gotten him to confess that Cersei suspected Littlefinger, always a wild card in the Lannister-Stark war, had transferred his obsession with Catelyn onto her eldest daughter. That information hadn’t been enough to locate her, but it _had_ given them direction. He’d slit Lannister’s throat after he’d gotten that information. He didn’t think Sansa would cry for Jaime Lannister, but he doesn’t want to tell her. Not yet.

“I want to know everything he has on Littlefinger, Jon,” she tells him.

“I’ll get you the files once we’re North, I promise,” he caressed her palm with his thumb. He’d stopped making promises long ago, but now, with Sansa in front of him, he keeps finding himself doing it.

“Good,” she says and nods, a little more comfortable, a little more at ease. Information, Sansa has learned, is an important weapon, maybe more important than guns or knives or batons.

\---

Jon notices the way Dickon looks at Sansa and he doesn’t like it. He looks at her furtively, when he thinks no one notices. His eyes follow her curves, her breasts and her hips. He is polite. But Jon notices. Jon notices because he knows all too well what it is to look at Sansa that way.

Yet, Dickon will not be following them North, even as he sends a team of his men. So, the way Dickon looks at Sansa bothers him a little less. What bothers him more is when he notices Ed looking at Sansa that way. Ed, his friend, his brother. A man he trusts. A man who is going with them North. A man who appears smitten with Sansa. He hates himself for the jealousy he feels whenever he catches Ed and Sansa talking, or when he sees Ed’s dour countenance transform when Sansa walks into a room.

Ed cannot have her. Jon cannot have her either, he knows. But no, Ed will not have her. Jon won’t allow it. He doesn’t think Ed would try something; knowing she’s Jon’s little sister should be enough to keep him in line, but still, Jon watches Ed closely whenever he’s around Sansa. He’s ready to step in, if necessary—to protect her.

_Protect her_ , he tells himself. Even if that means protecting her from himself.

\---

When they do finally start North, Sansa feels it in her body. It’s silly, she thinks, but she feels it all the same. It’s like muscle memory; her body pulling her toward home, the cold reinvigorating her as she breathes it deep into her lungs.

She doesn’t bundle herself up as much as she used to—she wants to feel that cold, that nostalgic climate that gives her a center when she’d been without one for far too long. After all the time she spent taking her clothes off for money, she can’t bring herself to be all that worried about modesty. But Jon insists she wrap a scarf around her neck, tells her she needs to wear a coat and she acquiesces, if only to make him feel better.

He’s changed since the last time she’s seen him. At eighteen, he had just begun growing a beard, and he was building muscle but still carried something of boyhood within him. At twenty-three, he no longer carries that awkwardness—he’s strong and athletic now. But more than that, she thinks, is the weary look in his eye. He’d always been moody. But now it seems like he’s had too much weight on his shoulders for too long. It makes her sad. Sad for them both, as she thinks that weary look in his eye can only be mirrored by her own as she looks back at him.

He still has some instinct to treat her a like a child. She knows he is only trying to protect her. She is so glad to be with him again. It is almost enough to make her forget about revenge.

But she won’t let Littlefinger live. He can’t live. She and Jon will figure it out together.

When she finds him looking at her intently, she can’t help but smile. Weary, yes, but there’s life in his eyes too, when he looks at her and smiles timidly. He’d always had that timid way about him. She thinks she could have him look at her that way forever, and she’d be happy.

\---

“How will we take him down, Jon?” Sansa asks him and he watches her carefully. When he sees that steely look in her eyes—bold and unmerciful—he feels that thrill shoot through him again. The thrill he knows he shouldn’t feel and not just because it only adds to the kindling fire of his feelings for her, the desire running hotter than he knows how to manage. It is also because it’s dangerous, that he might give into that thrill, might encourage her rage as it joins with his own, make her more ruthless and more reckless like him.

It’s dangerous to hunger for enemies’ blood, no matter how much those enemies deserve it. And _oh_ , how he knows Littlefinger deserves it. She hasn’t told him everything; but he knows enough of the man. How he’d made Sansa believe he would protect her from the Lannisters and then used her for her body and kept her as a hostage, merely disguising the shackles through golden jewelry, luxury hotels and resorts.

But if he gives into that thrill and goes for Littlefinger’s throat he could be dragging Sansa down with him and he doesn’t want her to lose whatever bit of innocence she might have left. There has to be a way, he thinks, to give her what she wants, to get rid of Littlefinger, without corrupting her nature to something more like his own.

He thinks he never would have gotten to this point if they’d been able to stay together. He thinks Sansa could have pulled him from that brink, reminded him of his humanity so he didn’t lose touch with kindness and mercy. But it is too late for him now. It doesn’t have to be too late for Sansa.

“What do you want to do, Sansa?” He asks. He wants to give her what she wants, even though he’s afraid. He needs to understand, at least, what she has in mind. It might give him a better understanding of how he can help her without twisting her further.

“I want him dead,” she says.

It is simple. But he doesn’t expect that it ends there. If it did, she would not have placed this much thought to it. Because killing a man was easy. No, he expects that she wants more, and she confirms it: “But first, I want him to suffer. And I don’t just mean a painful death, Jon. I want him to see his empire crash down all around him, realize that he’s lost everything, and I want him to _beg me,_ Jon,” she inhales sharply, her voice and her body shaking. A desperation alighting her. Fierce eyes but a frail posture. That need quaking within her.

He moves forward instinctively and puts his hands on her shoulders, runs them down her trembling arms soothingly. “Sansa,” he says softly, in a calming tone. “Breathe. Okay? Just breathe with me,” he says and begins drawing air into his lungs slowly, urging her to mimic him. It surprises him; this breathing thing, he’s never felt like it worked for him whenever he tried it and yet, now he finds himself doing it damn near flawlessly. He wonders distantly if maybe he needed someone else to do it for in order for it to work.

But she is beginning to breathe with him now, though there is a spark of impatience in her eyes. She breathes in rhythm with his own. It’s calming for him too.

She looks at him plainly as they begin to settle against each other. “I want him dead, Jon,” she says. But her voice is no longer as sharp as it was before. He thinks she understands now that he doesn’t want to deny her this.

“I know,” he murmurs reassuringly. He brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, and her eyes flutter shut. “I know, sweetheart,” he tells her softly.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt closer to another person before.

\---

Shae decides to leave just before they make it to Greywater. She’s never been so far north, and now she’s thinking she wants to get on a plane, maybe go to the tiny spot in Eastern Europe she knows her sister has settled into now. Shae’s family were Russian Jews, immigrating to flee danger before she was born. She spent much of her childhood moving from place to place, finding the unwelcoming stares of people in the cities, who’d whisper the slur they labeled Roma people with, acted as if she and her family were thieves just by existing. But now she thinks being with her sister, it can be different. And now, she thinks, Sansa doesn’t need her like she used to.

Sansa expects it. She knows Shae has been homesick for a long time, even if she didn’t know what to call home. Sansa can understand that quite well. She’s going to miss her, but she’s also happy for her friend. Shae had never been quite the same after her paramour had betrayed her. A man who paid her money for companionship, which grew to more; and eventually paid her to disappear. It was another in a long line of rejections and disappointments for Shae, Sansa knew.

Still, Shae loves her and grips her tight before she says goodbye. And Shae tells her: “be careful, Sansa.”

Sansa raises one eyebrow at that. “I’m always careful, you know that. You taught me.”

Shae smiles sadly. “I taught you,” she says and something like nostalgia passes over her face. “But don’t forget, Sansa. And don’t trust him, not _completely_ anyway. Keep Brienne by your side.”

Shae doesn’t have to say who she means. She knows Sansa will understand. She knows Sansa won’t like hearing it either, that she puts her trust in Jon so much that Shae knows there is little she can do to sway her. But Shae has seen the way Jon looks at Sansa, his little sister. Brienne will protect her; Shae knows. Otherwise, she couldn’t bring herself to leave.

“He is my brother, Shae,” Sansa says, and Shae thinks she sees some of the little girl Sansa used to be.

She can’t stop herself. “Don’t you see the way he looks at you, Sansa?” she doesn’t want to fight, not when she’s leaving and very well could never see Sansa again. But some part of her had to say it; had to _ask,_ because she doesn’t believe Sansa is blind.

Sansa looks like the wind has been knocked out of her. Shae feels a twinge of guilt, but she thinks it was the right thing, even if it was painful for Sansa to hear.

“He is my _brother,_ Shae,” Sansa repeats, emphasizing brother as if it erases all questions. And Shae knows it’s a battle she’s lost; knew it before she’d even started. Their bond of blood would not be torn asunder by Shae’s words. But she had to make sure Sansa knew, and by the look in her eyes, she thinks Sansa does.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. Just remember—keep Brienne with you.”

“Always,” Sansa nods, her posture softening as they near their goodbye. They hug again.

“I love you,” Shae says, feeling herself on the verge of tears but she holds them back. She is strong.

“I love you, Shae,” Sansa croaks, her voice thick, hugging her a little tighter. Shae can hear her tears. She feels them in her own eyes, unable to stop the smallest tide in response to Sansa’s. She presses a rough kiss to Sansa’s cheek, and then she is turning away. They wave to each other when she gets in her cab for the airport.

It is only later—on the plane, after two glasses of wine to calm her nerves from flying—that Shae realizes something she hadn’t before. She focused on how Jon looked at Sansa. But now, in the air and on her own, she remembers the way Sansa looked at Jon. Defending Jon hadn’t come from naivete, Shae realizes, but another reason entirely.

She was also defending herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to any Jaime fans I might have upset! This is supposed to be a darker Jon and I can see him torturing Jaime if he thought it'd help him find Sansa. I want to note here that I love the Sansa and Shae friendship, and I really wrestled with whether to have Shae leave. Ultimately, I did feel that Shae has her own life to live, she's not native to the U.S. (much as she wasn't Westerosi) and misses her family/land of origin. She knows that Sansa is about as safe as she can be, so she doesn't feel like she has to stay with her to fend off Littlefinger. However, I really tried to show just how much these two women love each other, even if they're parting ways. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon struggles with his feelings for Sansa. Jon and Sansa argue over how to take down Littlefinger.

_“Oh fuck, Sansa,” Jon managed to pant as he drove his cock into her._

_“Jon,” she moaned, tossing her head back, gripping his shoulders. He felt her cunt clench around his cock even harder, and knew she was close._

_“Cum, Sansa, I want you to cum for me baby,” he rasped and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave marks, as he pounded into her._

_“Oh, Jon, fuck me,” she moaned. He leaned down and took one of her nipples into his mouth. And then she was screaming, “Jon, Jon,” as she came on his cock. Barely holding on now, he lifted himself up, brought her legs up in the air to rest on his shoulders so he could thrust even deeper inside her and he fucked her as hard and fast as he could, needing her warm and wet and wrapped so tight around his cock he could hardly stand it and he was close, so close…_

Jon woke up in his bed, sweating and hard as a rock. He hated the realization that it was a dream, and then hated himself for lamenting that fact.

The dream, he’d had dreams like that before, if he was being honest. But he tried not to indulge them. Now that he and Sansa were reunited, he feared it was worse than ever. His cock ached with the need for release and he reached down to touch himself. He closed his eyes, reliving the dream he’d cruelly woken from. He imagined driving into her as he did in the dream, the feeling of her cunt clutching his cock, her screams of his name and moans of pleasure and he was cumming with a deep guttural groan, her name softly falling from his lips.

He felt no small amount of guilt, fantasizing about his sister as he stroked himself. But it wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d done so, either. He’d always felt guilty for it. He’d tried to keep himself from thinking of her whenever he touched himself, but she was always popping up unbidden, as the vague outline of a woman became Sansa.

Sometimes it was easier, if he tried to imagine women he had been with, like Ros or Ygritte. But the sick truth was, he’d been with those women in the first place because of their resemblance to Sansa. It was a vicious cycle of hating himself for feeling the way he did about his own sister, trying to move on with other women, and only finding himself drawn to women that reminded him of Sansa in some way. It wasn’t a conscious choice when he approached a woman, but once things had reached a certain level of intimacy, he would realize whatever similarities, from looks to personality, were really behind the attraction.

He and Ros had mostly just been friends who had sex. But with Ygritte, she had wanted something serious. He hoped with pursuing it that his feelings for Sansa would fade. He cared for Ygritte. But whatever amount he was able to move on from Sansa was due to the fact that his sister was lost to him, not because Ygritte ever came close to replacing her in his heart. If Sansa weren’t lost to him, if she weren’t his sister…

He’d leave any other woman in a heartbeat if that were the case and she wanted him too. He felt horrible for it, but it was the truth. Maybe that was why things with Ygritte never worked. Maybe that was why things with his love life in general never worked. There was always someone else he wanted, even if it was someone he couldn’t have. He didn’t understand what had made him this way, but Sansa was just _it_ to him. _The One._ The One for him. The One he wanted for life.

He was a sick fuck. But he was in love with her. He had been for as long as he could remember, and before he even knew what it was or what it meant. Being with her again now, after so long apart, it felt even harder to ignore or restrain. He wanted more than anything to keep her safe. How could he do that? Was he any better than Littlefinger?

No. No, Jon would _never_ hurt her. Would she hate him, if she knew? If she knew, would she maybe, just maybe…

He couldn’t let himself finish the thought. It was too dangerous.

\---

Arriving at Greywater, Jon felt a sense of ease settle in his chest. The swamps and the winding roads with dead ends were the ultimate protection from anyone who didn’t know the area. Jon watched with a small smile to himself as he saw Sansa take it all in, her eyes roaming on everything, getting into the mystery that felt inherent in this maze of geography. He even saw that she had begun taking notes and chuckled to himself. She hadn’t lost all sense of wonder, and that made his heart swell.

She is polite with Howland, who welcomes her with a big hug he can tell Sansa wasn’t prepared for, but she takes it all in stride. She seems to hit it off with Meera and Gilly, and she coos at the newborn Little Sam ( _she’d be a good mother—stop it dammit)._

When he takes her to meet Sam, she is kind and charming for the initial greeting and seems to like his friend. But soon she is hard-faced determination again. “I want to know what you have on Littlefinger,” she tells him.

Sam looks a bit surprised and turns to Jon. “Give her all the files, Sam,” Jon tells him, and Sam looks uncertain. His friend is looking between Jon and Sansa and back again.

“Are you sure that’s for the best? It’s just, there’s some sensitive stuff in there,” Sam says nervously, shifting on his feet, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

“I can handle it,” Sansa says. Sam looks at him again, to which he thinks Sansa gives a huff of irritation. He just nods at his friend. Sansa can handle it, he knows. It pains him to think how familiar the sketchier stuff may be to her, but if there’s one thing he has learned since their reunion, it’s that Sansa has seen enough that very little would shock her.

Sam retrieves the files from a binder in a shelf in his tech room. He’s got a laptop where he can show her electronic information if needed. Sansa sits at the table and opens the binder and Jon sits down next to her. She raises her eyes to him for a moment, as if asking him a question.

“We’re doing this together aren’t we?” he says and tries to smile. He isn’t sure he succeeds but Sansa nods before turning back to the files.

The easiest information they find in the beginning—his strip clubs, including The Mockingbird, his hotels and resorts in three countries, some investments from Wall Street, bank accounts, and the last few years in tax returns. Then, a little further back, information on his illegal practices—brothels, including one not far from The Mockingbird where Sansa had been working. Jon clenches his fists. A paper trail, well-hidden but no match for Sam’s skills, connecting him to drug and weapons trafficking from Mexico and Colombia-based gangs. Sealed reports from women and girls, bound by non-disclosure agreements but discussed in internal mediation, of abuses they suffered at Littlefinger’s hands and/or at the hands of his associates. Jon tenses and watches Sansa from the corner of his eye, unable to look at her directly as she reads these accounts. He thinks her grip on the page tightens, but there is little otherwise suggesting a reaction from her as she appears to be reading intently.

Finally, she looks up. “It’s not enough,” she says, dejected.

Jon doesn’t know what to think. There is plenty of information on criminal activity that directly implicates Littlefinger. Jon doesn’t know exactly how Sansa wishes to demolish his empire, but surely this provides some useful ammunition. “What do you mean, Sansa? There’s a lot of information—”

She is shaking her head. “No, no. It is but it isn’t the _right_ information.” Her disappointment colors her features.

Jon furrows his brow in confusion. “What does the right information look like, Sansa?” He sees Sam sitting across from them, looking confused much like Jon.

She turns to face Jon with her blue eyes striking him. “We need something that he would be utterly ruined by. I mean outright turning shareholders for his hotels and clubs against him, Jon. He earns those shareholders enough money that it will take more to get them to force him out. It’s the only way.” She is looking at him imploringly, but he still feels lost.

He looks to Sam. “Could give us a minute?” he asks, not sure how much he wants his friend here for this conversation, even if he doesn’t understand what exactly the conversation is at this point.

“Sure, take all the time you need,” Sam nods kindly, picks up his laptop and leaves them alone.

Jon thought he’d immediately start speaking once Sam left, but now he seems at a loss for words. “Sansa,” he says, grasping for something, though he’s not sure what.

“I don’t expect to find what he’s done to the North. To our family.” She shakes her head, crosses her arms and sighs. “But I know there’s more than this, Jon. More that we can use. This—it’s criminal behavior, sure, but there’s a lot a man will be forgiven for when he makes the men who back him richer. This isn’t enough.”

Her statement makes him wonder—how much _has_ Littlefinger been forgiven for? What has he done to Sansa and gotten away with that she’s convinced none of the information they have is enough? The thought causes anger to brew in his chest, and his hands twitch with the need to hit something.

She looks at him, and he sees, _again,_ that look in her eye. The dangerous one. The one he isn’t sure he can handle and do right by Sansa at the same time. “I want to bring him to his knees. The only way I can think to do that is to blackmail him. Make him _think_ he can stop the information from coming out. But none of the information in these files is enough.” She tells him, looking at the binder as though it has offended her.

Jon feels as if his head is spinning. Blackmail? She hadn’t said that was what she wanted, but then the last time they discussed it she had nearly hyperventilated, and he’d had to help her breathe. He can still remember the feeling of her body against his. ( _Stop it for the love of God!_ ). 

“Sansa, blackmailing him is too dangerous. We’ll provoke him.”

She looks back at him. “Exactly,” she says, her features strong and determined. She doesn’t even blink. He tries to let it sink in.

But he’s jumping out of his chair before he can think about it. “What’s that supposed to mean? You mean to use yourself as bait?” he questions angrily. He’d just gotten her back, and now she wanted to put her life on the line like this?

But if he’s angry, then she is too as she rises out of her seat and looks at him defiantly. “That is exactly what I mean to do. Not to mention, it is the only way for our plan to work,” she tells him, her voice entering a lower register.

“We don’t even have a plan, Sansa! You’re only just now telling me this!” he says, and he knows he needs to get a grip on himself, he’s raising his voice at her, and he doesn’t mean to do this. To fight with her. Possibly scare her. But she is scaring him now with what she wants to do.

“Jon,” she says and takes a step toward him, breathing. In. Out. “If I don’t lure him, I don’t know how we get to him. I’m not going back there,” she says.

“You don’t have to go back there, Sansa. We can send some men in; I can go myself—”

“No! I want to be the one to do it, Jon!” Sansa says desperately. “I need to be the one to do it.” And he can hear that need in her voice, trilling her vocal cords.

He softens then, approaches her and puts a steady hand on her shoulder. “You can, we can grab him, bring him here—”

“And you think my plan’s too dangerous?” she says, her voice rising. “Do you have any idea the security he’ll surround himself with now that I’m gone? You can’t capture someone like that—”

“I’ve done it before!” he exclaims defensively, only realizing the implications of what he’s said once the words have left his mouth.

She looks at him with surprise. Not condemnation, as he’d feared. Then again, she hasn’t heard the whole story. “What are you talking about Jon? Tell me,” she urges him.

He sighs. He doesn’t know if wants to tell her. He hadn’t planned on it, not yet. He thought he’d have more time. But can he really dodge the question now that they’ve reached this impasse? And the way she’s looking at him. Can he really?

His shoulders slump a little. He turns back to his chair and sits down, and Sansa immediately joins him, sitting in the seat next to him. “If you really want to know,” he says, providing an out, more for himself than for her, truly. But she only nods for him to continue. “Okay. I’ll tell you,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little dream smut? I have a hard time delaying gratification, to be honest. Next chapter will have more elaboration on what happened with Jaime Lannister, and the beginnings of the plot against Littlefinger start to take shape. Thanks for reading! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon opens up to Sansa, and Sansa's plans begin to solidify.

**Two Years After Ned Stark’s Murder…**

_Jon feels a little bad, he has to admit, using the man’s niece against him this way. Myrcella had been missing nearly six months now, and all accounts suggest the Lannister family are absolutely distraught. Of course, Jon does not have Myrcella. She is a young, innocent girl. He doesn’t know where she is either. But placing an anonymous tip for Jaime Lannister to follow seemed to bring him right where Jon wanted him. He feels a bit ridiculous for his guilt too, considering what this man and his family have done to Jon's family—Jaime is one of the top suspects for his father’s murder, and what they’ve done to Sansa…_

_If it were true that Cersei Lannister was still holding Sansa captive, then using her beloved twin brother for a hostage exchange could get Sansa back._

_And truth be told, he thought it would be harder to capture the man. He’d shown up with only a few men, and Jon had only recognized Bronn of Blackwater Bay, where the hit man was said to toss all his bodies. Jon’s team, at the ready to swoop in, follow Jaime and his companions for weeks after they arrive in the area, searching for clues on Myrcella. They break into their hotel rooms in the middle of the night, capturing Jaime and his small team quickly. They take them to an abandoned warehouse that had since been used by the Night’s Watch. They kill all his men within ten minutes of arrival._

_It almost seems too easy, in fact. Jon wonders if there’s something else that’s going to fuck up his plans. If Jaime had gotten wind of it and was lulling Jon into a false sense of security. But would he let his men die so easily? Jon didn’t think so, not even with a Lannister. They always claimed to pay their debts._

_He keeps him for months. Retrieving and confirming easy information at first. When the information turns out to be accurate, he presses him on Cersei’s whereabouts, he needs to know if Cersei has her and where that monster of a woman could be keeping Sansa. But Jaime says nothing about Cersei, nothing about Sansa. Jon knows they need to do more._

_So, Jon begins by making sure Jaime can’t sleep. His guards always wake him before he can nod off. When necessary, they throw buckets of water on him. They feed him just enough to keep him alive, but it’s little enough that his hair’s thinning, his bones protruding unnaturally and his features are becoming gaunt. It isn’t enough. So, Jon takes to beating him, they give him electric shocks, and Jon stabs him in his side, lets him bleed a little while before having a doctor patch him up._

_It isn’t enough. So, Jon chops the man’s hand off. Jaime’s screams are unlike any of the ones Jon had heard before, and he knows he’s broken him. The dead look in the man’s eyes tells him as much. Jaime says Cersei no longer has Sansa, but Jon is skeptical. However, when Jaime tells him Cersei’s whereabouts and he’s able to send a covert team to confirm it, that they’d had eyes on Cersei, Jon starts to believe the Lannister captive. He tells him how Sansa disappeared after Joffrey was killed, how Cersei suspected Littlefinger had taken her. He tells Jon all about Littlefinger’s obsession with Catelyn, though Jon already knew enough of it. Known Littlefinger grew up with Catelyn, that Catelyn thought he was a good man and his father couldn’t convince her otherwise. But he then tells Jon that Littlefinger just might have shifted that obsession onto her daughter Sansa after Catelyn was killed. Sansa, who looked so much like her mother. Except even more beautiful, Jaime says, and how Littlefinger would be sure to agree, Jaime smirks, taunting him. Jon puts his boot to Jaime’s neck. Commands him to tell him everything he knows about Littlefinger. Jaime doesn’t know much of the man except what should be immediately apparent to anyone, that the man is a snake. When Jon is satisfied that he’s learned all he can from the man, he slits his throat, and they throw his body in a giant incinerator._

\---

Sansa is just looking at him, not saying anything. He just wants her to say something. Anything, really, because he’s terrified of how she’ll look at him and his cruelty. The systematic way he had broken down a man’s spirit and will to live before finally taking mercy on the man and ending it. No, it wasn’t the killing. It was the months of sadism that preceded it. Because Jon—whatever morals he might have been raised with to never enjoy killing or inflicting pain even when it was necessary in their world—looked at that man as he wasted away, as the hope died within him, as he cried out in agony, and Jon had _enjoyed_ it.

And she must have noticed that he had no remorse. He still has no remorse, even as he is terrified of what she might think. Her opinion of him, he doesn’t know how he’d handle it if it were demolished just now by his confession. But she is just looking at him and he can’t read her expression and it’s driving him mad.

“Sansa?” he says, maybe a little too loudly, hoping to jar her into some sort of reaction. She starts to shake her head slightly, and he thinks she must be about to call him a monster.

“It wouldn’t work with Littlefinger,” she says, as if that were her main takeaway from his story. He feels his chest rising and falling a little more rapidly, scared and confused and (God help him) _excited_ that she’s not acting the least bit horrified by his actions.

“What?” he asks, at a loss, not sure he can follow any answer she might give.

“I spent enough time with Jaime when I was with that family,” she says and crosses her arms, a contemplative look gracing her features. “He wasn’t the most adept at those sorts of games. That was why he was a hit man, not some manipulator like his father. I remember overhearing an argument between him and Cersei once when she called him the stupidest Lannister. Not that Cersei was ever as clever as she liked to believe, but more than Jaime.”

He nods, unable to muster a reply. Being in love with his sister was bad enough. Reveling in the fact that she seemed not the slightest bit repulsed by his brutality was worse. He realizes he was almost hoping for her horror as much as he was dreading it. Because now, he was in even deeper.

He’s thinking of all the brutal ways they could take down Littlefinger together. He’s thinking of how beautiful she looks when she’s angry and how she might look when they take her tormentor down. He’s thinking of how Sansa might look when she kills him, and _damn,_ Jon knows that shouldn’t excite him, make his blood run hot and rush south, but it does anyway. He’s thinking all manner of things—how if she wasn’t horrified by this, maybe she wouldn’t be horrified if she knew…

“Littlefinger would never leave himself vulnerable like that,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. He blinks. He’s almost lost what they were talking about, his brain scrambling to catch up. “If that’s your plan, you should know it’d never work.”

“And your blackmail plan will?” he asks it more harshly than he meant to. But Sansa doesn’t shrink away from his ire. If anything, she hardens.

“Yes,” she says, never straying from his challenging gaze and it thrills him. “As long as we have the right information, it _will_ work,” she says and begins pacing the room.

“Then what is the right information, Sansa? You just said we don’t have it,” he pointed out.

“Just let me think a minute Jon,” she says and continues pacing. “You don’t know him. Not like I know him. I know how his mind works. I know what he wants.”

Jon feels like he’s been punched in the gut when he thinks about Littlefinger’s _wants._ “And what’s that?” he asks tensely. He’s not sure he wants to know, but at the same time, he knows he _needs_ to.

“Power,” she says, her voice and gaze drifting before flitting back to him. “And me.”

Jon exhales, a feeling of dread washing over him. “He can’t have you,” he says firmly, angrily, gritting his teeth so he doesn’t yell.

She looks at him in annoyance. “Obviously, Jon. At least not any more than he already has,” she says with disgust.

And Jon can’t see straight, and he needs to hit something. He needs to hit something _bad._ That beast of anger inside of him is itching to get out, to destroy, as he imagines Littlefinger’s hands on Sansa, on _his_ Sansa—

No, he stops himself. No, she is not _his_ Sansa. She is his _sister._ He tells himself, reminds himself, trying to quiet that voice inside him that is screaming _Sansa is mine!_ _She’s mine!_

“What did he do to you, Sansa?” he asks, moving closer to her. He had meant to ask her this eventually, but he knows he shouldn’t be asking right now. That it isn’t the right time, not when he’s angry and she’s exasperated, and she doesn’t look at him like he’s a monster when he so clearly is, and he feels his self-control hanging by a very thin thread.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says tiredly, looking away from him.

“It matters to me!” he says, unable to stop the storm brewing inside him, grabbing her arm to keep her from walking away from him. Pulling her toward him. Close.

Too close.

“Stop it, Jon. Just stop!” she says, and he releases his hold, tries to catch his breath.

“Whatever he did to me is not the point right now.”

“Then what is the point Sansa?” he rasps, his patience bleeding out of him. He feels like they’ve just been circling each other over and over again with this conversation and they’re getting nowhere.

“The point is I know what he wants, and we can use it against him,” she says. And now he doesn’t want to hit something, he wants to _kill_ something. Namely, Littlefinger. But Sansa wants to be the one to do it, and he privately vows to make it so.

“How Sansa? I won’t let you use yourself as bait.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I thought I already told you that you aren’t going to _allow_ me to do anything, Jon. I will do this, and you can either help me or get out of my way.”

Her words sear into him like an accusation. He wants to protect her, and he doesn’t know how to do that when she doesn’t want him to. When she’s hellbent on destruction and nothing he says can change that. He admires it. He hates it.

“Here’s what we do, Jon,” she says, coming toward him and placing a hand on his forearm to get his attention.

(As if she doesn’t already have it. As if she doesn’t _always_ have it. Even when it’s wrong and she shouldn’t have it. Even when that attention could destroy them both).

“We let him know that I’m here as he’s surely searching for me. We let him know I’ve got information that will cause his shareholders to abandon him. We lure him here and we release that information and we kill him. Once that information is out not a soul will want to look for him. They might just assume he’s killed himself.”

“Sansa, this is too dangerous. It’s reckless. Let him think you’re going to destroy him, and he may come here to kill you.” It would be over his dead body, Jon knows. But he still doesn’t want to take the chance.

“He would never kill me, Jon. He loves me,” she practically spits the words.

“Love? That is not love, Sansa. Someone who loves you would never use you like that.”

“He does love me, Jon. In his own sick way, he does,” she says and sighs, running one hand along her forehead tiredly.

He feels like he’s being accused again at those words. He would never do as Littlefinger has. But how much does that matter, really, when he loves her in a way he shouldn’t?

“You—” he stammers. He isn’t sure what to say now. He grasps toward pragmatism in desperation. “You said none of the information we have is good enough. So how exactly do we do this?” He doesn’t think he’s decided to go along with this. But he seems to be going along anyway, helpless against the tide of Sansa’s will.

She looks at him so intensely he feels himself growing hot. “I’ll find a way to get the information we need,” she says.

It scares the hell out of him. But he believes her.

\---

She goes to Brienne. Brienne is the only one who will understand. When she invites Sansa in, she’s cleaning one of her guns, and it brings a small smile to Sansa’s face. She knows it’s calming for her guard, her friend. She sits on a chair while Brienne is perched on her desk, and sighs.

“He didn’t have it,” Sansa says. Brienne looks up at her quizzically.

“Sam, Jon’s hacker friend. He didn’t have what we hoped for.”

Brienne nods and sets her gun to the side. She looks back at Sansa: “You can get it.”

Brienne is straightforward. It’s one of the things she loves about her. After so long in Littlefinger’s hands, it was such a gift to have someone she could talk to and not play verbal games with. The subtleties and innuendo so characteristic of conversations with Littlefinger were almost like their own language, and once Brienne and Shae entered her life, she’d finally been able to regain fluency in sincerity. Now, she has that with Jon too. She loves that when they argue, she still feels safe. He would never hurt her no matter how angry he might get, and she wasn’t sure there was another man on earth she could feel like that with. 

But with this, perhaps there was such a thing as too much honesty. She’s not sure she wants Jon to know.

“Sansa?” Brienne calls, bringing her attention back. She looks back at her friend. “You _can_ do this, you know.”

Sansa just shakes her head. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

“You’re not responsible for any of it, Sansa,” Brienne says softly. People would look at Brienne’s height and her intimidating gait and assume she was hard. And she was, when she needed to be. But Sansa also knew her friend could be gentle. She smiles at Brienne, but it falters.

“I benefitted from it,” she says.

“I’d hardly call the way you were living _beneficial,_ Sansa,” Brienne tells her. And she knows her friend is right. But why is it so hard for her to accept that?

Because to anyone on the outside, it surely would have looked that way. She was living in luxury, it was true. No matter that it was a prison. No matter that she was degraded and used every day, alone and afraid until Shae and Brienne. She still slept on silk sheets. She still had designer clothing. She still had fine dining. And Littlefinger’s businesses—legal and otherwise—paid for it all.

Will Jon judge her? She’d like to think no. And after his confession, she supposes she is due for one of her own. “You’ll be there with me, when I tell them?”

Brienne walks over to her and grasps her hand. “Of course. It will be fine, Sansa. And we’re one step closer to where we want to be.”

Sansa tells herself that Brienne is right. Reminds herself: _one step closer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things should be picking up more in the next chapter so I hope you're enjoying it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reveals her plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a warning here that there are some brief, if a bit graphic, references to past rape/non-con and dub-con at the beginning of this chapter. If you skip the first three paragraphs, you should be in the clear and probably won't miss too much plot-wise.   
> Also, I know nothing about hacking and computer tech, so the bits with it probably aren't realistic, but it's a small factor in the story overall.

Sansa remembers everything she’s done to get where she is now; to survive. She almost hates herself for it. But she can’t ultimately, because she is alive. And it is an advantage to remember everything she’s done, now when she needs it. When she needs to remember everything that she’s learned about Littlefinger and everything he’s taught her. Remembering is the key, she knows, to taking him down as she’s sworn to herself that she would, every night when she laid in bed hating him, the memory of swallowing his disgusting seed replaying in her mind. She never let him cum inside her. She would never let him. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure how much she could take. Sometimes, she found herself getting up out of her bed to retch into the toilet. What sustained her were those thoughts of how she would eventually destroy him. Those thoughts protected her just as much as giving herself to him like he wanted protected her.

She’d had to do it, she realized at some point. It was the only way she would ever gain his trust. That also meant, to her disgust, acting like she enjoyed it. Acting like she wanted him the way he wanted her. Playing herself as coy and demure when needed, the perfect submissive whore eager to please him. It helped her. Let her learn his weaknesses.

And he’d begun to trust her. He really had. She could see the satisfied gleam in his eye when she’d lower herself onto his lap. He believed so easily that he’d successfully groomed her, ignorant of the fact that she imagined slashing his throat with a knife every night they sat down to dinner together.

It brought her a certain degree of freedom. Not completely. Never completely, she was his prize that he never intended to lose. But he’d let her go off on her own now and then, over time allowing it more often. Allowed her to spend time with Brienne and Shae. She’d met them when Shae worked in one of his brothels and learned how much she loathed him. Brienne was a bouncer, but over time she’d come to learn the woman despised Littlefinger, and in fact, had known her mother, Catelyn. She had promised Catelyn she would find her and return her home after her father was killed and she was trapped with the Lannisters. That was before her mother and Robb were killed too, of course. But Brienne had found her. It was how she ended up one of Littlefinger’s employees, all in an attempt to help Sansa. It still gave her a kind of smug joy when she thought of Littlefinger’s obsession with her mother, knowing her mother had sent someone who ended up in his inner circle to protect her. It took time to trust them, but eventually she did. Brienne and Shae had saved her life once, when the son of one of Littlefinger’s business partners, Ramsay Bolton, had come after her.

Ramsay was the one to lose his life that night, and the three women had covered it up. Not even Littlefinger had known what happened when Ramsay went missing. They were fortunate his father Roose Bolton cared nothing for him, was relieved to see him gone, it seemed. That secret had bound them together.

It had also given her something else. A first taste of revenge. How she had craved it with Littlefinger, but she hadn’t known how sweet it could be until the night she watched Ramsay die. That night had changed her. Her fantasies of destroying Littlefinger become realer. She began to plot an eventual escape with Brienne and Shae. A plan that was close to being set into action when Jon arrived, bringing a piece of home and her heart with him.

And Jon knew something of revenge too, she had learned. Jon, who had killed Jaime Lannister after making him suffer and getting the information he needed, all in the hopes of finding her. She could hardly believe Jon had done that for her. He’d always been gentler than he liked to pretend in the past, when he trained to become Robb’s muscle for when Robb would eventually take over for their father.

But he had done it for her. She wanted to mourn their innocence, and maybe a small part of her did. But the bigger part of her reveled in his brutal way of protection. When she thought of Jaime Lannister and how the man had been the one to kill her father, how he looked at the bruises Joffrey or Cersei inflicted on her and did nothing, satisfaction coursed through her to know what Jon had done to him. They hadn’t asked for this. Neither of them had. But this was the hand they were dealt. This was the game they would have to play. And Sansa had every intention of winning it.

And could she admit, even to herself, everything she’d felt at Jon’s confession? How a part of her had been excited by it; excited by _him_ in a way no sister should feel excited by her brother? What would he think, if he knew?

(Would he feel the same?)

She remembered Shae’s warning. The way she said Jon looked at her. And she had known it, on some level. But Sansa had not let herself think about it too much until then. It scared her to know that she _liked_ the way he looked at her; how it made her feel like her skin was on fire. And now, after his revelations, she felt like she was close to burning up.

There was a desire in her that she’d never felt before. And she felt it for Jon. For her brother. She kept waiting for the wrongness of it to extinguish the flame he had sparked within her. But it didn’t. It only burned hotter.

But she couldn’t afford to let those feelings distract her. Not if she wanted to ensure Littlefinger’s downfall. So, she thought of the lessons he’d taught her, and the ones he’d never meant to teach.

Know what a man wants, and you know how to sway him the direction you want. She knew what he wanted. Sansa had taken away his most prized possession: herself. He was surely enraged by it, after he’d finally let the leash loose enough that she’d been able to cut it and escape. Now, she’d threaten his other prize: his money, his power, his empire. She’d thought Jon’s friend Sam would have what she needed but he hadn’t. She’d hoped that if Sam managed to find her, he’d have what Sansa knew. What Sansa had meant to take proof of with her, before Jon arrived and threw her plans into chaos.

If she could have, Sansa would have bought them more time. But she’d known the moment she saw Jon that if they didn’t leave that night, her brother, her only family left to her, would die. So, she’d sent him away and done what she’d had to do. Shae and Brienne hadn’t liked it; but when she explained who Jon was, what he meant to her, how (though she’d never admit it to anyone when her mother was alive) he was always her favorite brother, even if they weren’t the closest, because he had always understood her and she him, they’d gone along with it. She didn’t regret it. Would never regret their reunion.

But now she needed to fix what had been compromised by that decision. That meant she had to tell Jon and his friend Sam, even if they might hate her for the fact that she’d known and hadn’t stopped him sooner. _Brienne is right, it wasn’t in your control. Jon would never hate me for that._

She might have to tell Ed too, she thought. The man had taken a liking to her and they’d struck up a friendship. She had to admit she liked the men Jon surrounded himself with. Tormund was strange but she thought he was decent and honest. And head over heels for her friend Brienne, which only made her like him more. It seemed Jon was a good judge of character, which soothed her anxieties. They needed people they could trust.

\---

Jon had done Sansa’s bidding when she asked him to retrieve Sam and much to his chagrin, Ed, so they might talk about what she knew. He’d known that Sansa had formed a bond with the man, but to think she wanted him here for this, whatever it was, that she trusted Ed like that, burned him. He hated the way Ed looked at Sansa. He didn’t just look at her with lust but with something more tender. That scared Jon. He feared that Sansa and his friend Ed might fall in love. He wanted more than anything to stop that from happening, even as he felt selfish and ashamed for it. Who was he, to begrudge Sansa happiness that could come from loving someone whom Jon knew to be a good man? But damn him to hell, Jon wanted to be the one she loved that way.

She’d asked for Brienne as well, and Jon had informed the woman who still seemed to look at him as if he couldn’t be trusted. Despite that, Jon found himself growing to respect the woman, the quiet and steadfast way she stood loyal next to Sansa.

When they gathered in the room, Jon could sense how nervous Sansa was and that made him nervous. She’d been through so much, and to look like that, he feared what it meant. What had the power to make Sansa this nervous after everything?

She took a deep breath, and Jon saw Brienne going to Sansa’s side, and his sister looked at her with gratitude. Jon wanted to go too, to be closer, but he forced himself to stay still. He somehow knew that whatever she had to say, she wouldn’t want him closer. He tried not to watch Ed watching Sansa. Tried to concentrate on whatever she was about to tell them.

“Okay,” she said, looking around the room. Perhaps for courage, Jon thought. “So, I looked through the information Sam collected. And it really is quite impressive, Sam,” she looks to Jon’s friend who smiles at her.

“But there is something about him that wasn’t in the file,” she says and looks to Brienne. Jon realizes Brienne already knows, and he sees the small nod the woman gives Sansa, urging her to keep going. “Littlefinger traffics in drugs and weapons, it’s true. But that’s not all. He traffics in people. Women, specifically,” Sansa says, her voice shaking just slightly.

Jon feels an unsteady breath wracking through his lungs. His hands clench. How is it that the man could get even worse? Jon felt sick thinking of all the time Sansa had spent with this man, imagining what Littlefinger was capable of; what she’d been exposed to.

“You’re certain about this?” Sam asks her, likely wondering how he could have missed it.

She nodded. “I am quite sure,” she said. “I…I’ve been in the room when he’s working to transport a girl from somewhere one of his partners had her to his brothel.”

“Girl?” Ed asks, lip curling in disgust.

She looks at Ed steadily. “Sometimes, yes. I believe—” she stops, looks down at her hands, looks back up at them. “I believe the youngest to have been fourteen.”

Jon is shaking now. How could he have left Sansa in this man’s clutches for so long? He should have found a way to get to her sooner.

“I never supported what he did,” she says hesitantly, almost defensively.

Jon is struck. Is that why she’s so nervous? The thought that they would blame her had never even occurred to him. “Sansa, no one thinks that,” he tells her emphatically, gazing directly into her eyes ( _her eyes_ ) so she knows he means it.

“Jon is right, we wouldn’t think that,” Ed says gently and Jon bristles. Ed shouldn’t be the one comforting her, Jon thinks. Brienne places a soft and reassuring hand on Sansa’s shoulder, and this seems to relax her a little.

Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, Sansa says, “anyway, I think if we can find proof of this and threaten him with it, it’ll help lure him. It’ll cause shareholders of his more so-called _legitimate_ businesses to abandon him. He’ll have nothing to lose. And a desperate man makes mistakes. This is how we take him down.”

Jon considers it. Human trafficking had been on the rise and in the news. News topics obviously brought scrutiny, the kind of which Littlefinger couldn’t afford. And while people might have a stereotypical idea of street pimps as the usual perpetrators, a prominent businessman like Littlefinger? With underage victims? He could see that kind of story exploding. He could see how that could be the first domino before knocking the rest down and revealing his entire criminal enterprise. He feels bile rising in his throat when he thinks of Sansa having been near this man. 

“How do we find proof?” Jon asks, stepping toward her now. He needs to hold her. Needs to find a way to make things better for her.

Sansa looks to Sam. “If I can give you the password to his encrypted files, would you be able to transfer those files to your own system, Sam?”

“I could, but he’ll know that someone’s accessed them,” Sam tells her.

“Will he be able to track your location?” she asks.

“We have cloaking software, but a man like this would probably get through it eventually.”

Sansa smiles predatorily. “That’s fine. I only want enough time to tell him it’s me first and where he can find me.”

“Sansa, we’re risking war here,” Jon warns. He is scared. He’d almost forgotten what it was to feel like this.

“And he’ll lose,” she says in a confident, steady voice, her eyes burning as she gazes at him.

And Jon knows he must make that true. He cannot lose her. He thinks it would kill him.

“He’ll lose,” Jon says, nodding his agreement.

\--- 

While Sam is working on the file retrieval, Jon and his men begin training for the war Jon knows is coming. He wonders, in some ways, if any of his men resent being forced into this. But he finds they all seem as eager as he to take Littlefinger down. He’d long been an enemy to the Stark family and his men considered him a Stark, regardless of Jon’s last name. Littlefinger had also been an enemy to much of the North, including Howland and the rest of the Reed family, looking to bring the entire region under his control and allying with anyone who could help him do it.

Jon remembers hearing his father fighting with Catelyn about it. Ned telling her Littlefinger had to be dealt with. Her pleading for the man’s life. Telling his father that Littlefinger would never do what he was accused of. It was the Lannisters, she’d said, spreading lies against her childhood friend. At the time, Ned hadn’t believed it. He wanted Sansa to marry Joffrey for an alliance, had said that the union would bind them, make them all safer. Jon found himself hating his father for marrying Sansa off to benefit the Families. He realized in retrospect what fools Ned and Catelyn both had turned out to be, trusting people they shouldn’t.

And then, he had to admit, many of his men were halfway in love with his sister and wanted to protect her. Ed was always grating him now. Jon hated to think this might ruin their friendship. But he was doing what he could now to keep Ed and Sansa apart.

“He’s my friend, Jon.” Sansa had told him when he told Ed to leave Sansa when he’d found them in her room, telling him he needed to go to target practice. Sansa had realized what Jon was doing.

“He has other things to focus on, Sansa. I don’t want him distracted.” Jon had said evasively.

Sansa raised a brow at him. “And I’m a distraction?”

Yes, he thought. Yes, you are a distraction to him. A distraction to _me_. But he’d said nothing, simply huffed and let himself out. He couldn’t stand that Ed had been in Sansa’s room. Couldn’t stop thinking about what the two of them were doing. It was killing him inside. Truly killing him.

He tried to focus on other things. Littlefinger. Keeping himself fit and ready to fight. Checking in with Sam. But Sansa was always there, either in person or in his mind. There was no escaping it.

\---

Jon is called into Sam’s office two weeks later. They’ve gathered the evidence then. Sansa is leaning toward Sam’s computer, rapt, as she reads the incriminating material. Covert communications between Littlefinger and one of his “associates.” Jon is surprised that Sam has found some audio recording. He can hardly believe it, truly. Why would someone as supposedly clever as Littlefinger do something as stupid as recording a conversation of him negotiating a price for a woman he is _buying_?

Sansa smiles at him when he asks. He thinks again of how little he understands what she’s been through. What she knows of this vile man. “He’s keeping it as blackmail material against his associate,” she says. “He’s made a mistake, overestimating himself. He thinks he is the only one that can play with people that way. He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“He’s not,” Jon says, and tries to remind himself that Littlefinger is Sansa’s kill. He won’t take that away from her, as much as he imagines doing it himself.

“No, he’s not, and he’s about to find out,” she says, her voice cold, her face determined. That thrill he knows he shouldn’t feel runs along his spine, thrumming within him. He’s nearly stopped fighting it now. What is the point, really, when he knows he’ll lose?

And he’s not sure anymore—what it means to protect her. He just knows he wants to give her what she wants. Maybe he could never keep her from becoming ruthless. Maybe there is nothing he can do.

Maybe he never should have tried.

Perhaps she was just as brutal as he when he found her again. Just as set on revenge. He can hardly blame her. Not after everything that had happened to her. From Littlefinger. But also, from Joffrey, Cersei, and the Lannister family. Losing their father when she was so young. Losing everyone else. Everyone else but him.

They were beacons to each other. A piece of the past. A piece of themselves before the world had sunk its claws into them. And Jon is sick, he thinks, to find some pleasure in that. To think she might need him as he needs her.

And he does need her. In a way he shouldn’t. He always needed her, but now it’s stoking something primal within him. Something that demands the blood of those who wronged them. Something that demands _her._ Demands that she be his.

He sees how ready she is for this war. And he thinks this is how it’s meant to be. Their furies dance together, and he thinks the shame may not hold him back much longer. If she wanted him too…

Would it destroy them? He wonders. He doesn’t care if it destroys him. But he can’t let it destroy her.

Would it? He doesn’t know.

He’ll look at her sometimes from across the room, only to find she’s looking at him, too.

He just doesn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick sidenote: I just wanted to say that human trafficking *is* a rapidly growing problem, and I hesitate to use it as a plot device as sorts. I hope it doesn't come across as insensitive using it here--I think it makes perfect sense for a Littlefinger of the modern world. But there aren't going to be more graphic descriptions of trafficking. The specifics of the abuse Sansa suffered are rarely mentioned from this point onward--and there is nothing as graphic as it was at the beginning of the chapter here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reaches out to Littlefinger. Jon and Sansa confront each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has Sansa's blackmail letter to Littlefinger. And then what is undoubtedly the filthiest thing I've ever written.

Sansa knows now that the time is drawing near. Feels it in her bones the way she’d felt her grief sinking into her each time she lost another member of her family. She hopes that feeling isn’t a harbinger of what is to come. She doesn’t believe Littlefinger would kill her, but one of his henchmen might. But she knows there’s no turning back now, that this is what she must do. If she dies trying, at least she dies having done something to take back a little of what has been stolen from her.

She doesn’t worry so much for her own life. But she does worry for Jon’s. She can’t live without him; _won’t_ live without him, if he falls.

So, she tries to prepare. She asks Ed to her room, feels guilty for what she asks him, and she watches the way he sinks back into the chair across from her, runs a hand down his face and sighs.

She asks him if he will lead the defense, when Littlefinger arrives. If he will be at the forefront so Jon can be by her side, locked away further in the Reed’s estate. She knows Ed is capable, has seen enough of his training and strategizing with Jon. She knows he cares about Jon and cares about her. And she does feel shame, asking this man who has become an unlikely friend to possibly die in Jon’s place. She thinks she is horrible for it. But she asks anyway, because she doesn’t know how to live anymore without Jon.

Ed looks at her, reaches for her hand, squeezes. “I’ll do it,” he says, nodding. He is resolute. She feels like a monster. Maybe she is. “But you should know that Jon won’t agree,” he warns her.

“Leave Jon to me,” she tells him. He quirks his lips in a small smile. They’re rare for him, she knows.

“That I can do. He’s certainly whipped for you, sweetheart,” he says, with some measure of amusement. She blushes at the implication and the unexpected endearment. There’s hope flaring within her, of what Ed’s observation might mean for her and Jon. And then Jon walks into her room and practically barks at Ed to leave.

Jon won’t meet her eyes when she asks for an explanation. She wonders if he’s overheard their conversation. If he’s angry Sansa would ask Ed such a thing, or that Ed had called him whipped.

She’s always felt like she and Jon understood each other. But now, sometimes, he baffles her. She thinks she could get lost in the way he confuses her. She thinks she might like to.

\---

It’s time. She has the evidence now, and she thinks she is ready. As ready as she will ever be, at least. When they have collected the audio and she logs into Sam’s system, she is ready to make her move, to contact Littlefinger, let him know where she is; let him know what she has on him. She looks at Jon and he is looking back at her. He slides his open palm across the table to right in front of her. Gratefully, she takes his hand. She nods. Jon reaches over the table, lifts their entwined hands so he can kiss hers softly but fiercely, keeping his eyes locked with her own all the while. It is so tender she could nearly cry at his simple gesture of affection and comfort. It is everything to her.

“You are so brave, sweetheart,” he tells her in a quavering voice. She knows he is scared too. But they are in this together. They won’t let one another die, not if they can possibly help it.

She begins her missive to her once-captor:

_Petyr,_

_I know how you must miss me, your precious sweetling. Your Cat come again. I’m afraid I had to leave you. But all is not lost, Petyr. Here I shall send my regards to you. You told me once that my family dies and I weep. That I could do more than that. You’ve taught me so much. I have something for you. By now you must know it’s been taken. Here it is, the recording, the communications. Of course, I have made copies. You, Petyr, would expect no less from me._

_Are you prepared, Petyr, for what will happen when your shareholders see it? Can you imagine what they might say? I, for one, am quite anxious to find out. And I’m sure you know I’ve raided your contact list. Would you like to join me where I am now, Petyr? Would you like to see what has become of me in our time apart? Would you like the chance to destroy this evidence before it destroys you?_

_You will only have one chance, Petyr. I am being generous to give you this much, to give you my location so you don’t have to spend time ordering people to find it for you. Come here, Petyr, and face me. Come alone. If you do not, I promise your men will all be slaughtered before you get the chance to see my face again._

_So long, Petyr, and see you soon!_

_All my love, Sansa xoxo._

\---

He reads Sansa’s note to Petyr and feels sick. It’s a good note in that it accomplishes what she set out to do. Referencing things only he and Sansa discussed so he knows it is her. Taunting him with the sarcastic declaration of love, the hugs and kisses he will never truly have. It should be more than enough to provoke him, Jon thinks.

It terrifies him. A bone-deep all-consuming terror at the thought that he could lose her. The truth is, he’s never been so afraid in his life. The truth is, he’s always loved Sansa unlike anyone else.

The truth is, he’ll die without her. There’s no doubt in his mind.

He plans with his men. None of them expect Littlefinger to truly come alone, no matter the message’s instructions. Sansa stands stiffly at his side, her hands drawn behind her back. Like she used to. Her posture straight. She is elegant. Regal. _Radiant._ Just like he’d always thought.

She lets him take the lead here, as he let her take the lead with the psychological warfare. These are the kind of battles he knows how to fight. And he means to win. When they break for the night, he looks at her. Tries to memorize everything. He wants to keep the image in his mind when he’s fighting; to keep him going when he’s tired or weak.

He wants to hold onto this moment. The way she tugs him to join their arms together, walks down the hallway with him to where their bedrooms are so agonizingly close to one another.

He kisses her cheek, sees her rosy pink blush. Wishes her goodnight. He thinks he isn’t ready to let her go; to let her walk away when he doesn’t know what’s coming next.

No, he can’t and won’t live in a world without her. He doesn’t plan to, as he watches her go into her room, wishing he could follow.

\---

Later that night she comes to him.

He opens his door to her, and she glides past him. He can hardly breathe. He wonders what she is here for. But he can’t hope too much.

He thinks he wouldn’t stop it, if something were to happen.

If she wanted him too.

He thinks he couldn’t. Not when they might die in the near future, and he’d never get a chance.

He closes the door and latches it. Tells his heart to stop beating so loudly and shifts about on his feet. He doesn’t know what to do.

He coughs and clears his throat. “Is there something you needed?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

She looks at him and he can tell she’s thinking, and he wishes so much he could crawl into her head and know it all.

She sighs. Steps closer to him. Looks at him somewhat apologetically. “You’re not going to like it,” she says, not taking her eyes ( _her eyes_ ) off him.

He inhales deeply, steeling himself for whatever is to come. Whatever she is about to tell him that he thinks will surely crush him, if she’s approaching it this way.

And then the jealousy burns in his stomach when Sansa says she thinks Ed should lead the defense when Littlefinger arrives. _He_ should be the one doing it. Jon is and should be her protector. He tells her as much.

“I want you to be my protector Jon,” she tells him, oblivious to the fire she’s stoking inside him.

“Yet, you want one of _my men_ to lead,” he tells her incredulously. “Do you think me incapable Sansa? Do you think my men will respect me if I let Ed take over for me?” They’re talking in the privacy of his room, but Jon wishes they were further away from everyone. That it could just be him and Sansa alone, without Jon needing to worry about someone else taking her attention. Her love.

“Of course I don’t think you’re incapable, Jon! But a good leader knows when to delegate,” Sansa reasons with him. He balls his hands into fists, imagines breaking Ed’s face.

“And why should I delegate to him, Sansa?” he marches close to her, voice rising, chest heaving, and he watches hers do the same. He can no longer even remind himself not to look so much at his sister’s chest. Their fights arouse him. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but he’d never chose his love for Sansa to happen either.

“Because—”

“Because you’re in love with him?” he spits. He didn’t mean to ask it. He’s terrified of her answer.

She gapes at him. “What?” she asks.

“I’m not stupid Sansa. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, I saw you together _in_ _your room._ What else am I supposed to think? Are you sleeping together? Is that why you want _him_ to do this and not me?” he demands her to answer. Because he hasn’t been able to forget finding them in her room together.

“What? Jon, no,” she’s looking at him as if he’s crazy.

“No what, Sansa? No, you’re not sleeping with him or no, you’re not in love with him?” As much as it sickens him, he finds he wants to know. No, he _needs_ to know. He _wants_ to close his eyes and cover his ears to block it all out like a child.

“Neither Jon!” she exhales loudly in exasperation. “I’m not sleeping with him and I’m not in love with him. I’m not interested in him like that, Jon. He is just my friend.”

He tries to catch his breath. He looks at her carefully. “You’re telling me the truth?” he asks. He’s afraid to hope.

“Yes, Jon. I’m telling you the truth. You want to know why Ed was in my room? Because I asked him to come there so I could ask him to take your place, and he’s agreed. Jon, I know you are their leader. But I want you with me when Littlefinger arrives. I want you to be by my side. I want to be able to see you, touch you, so I know you’re safe, that _we’re_ safe. I know it isn’t fair, Jon. But this is what I want, more than anything. I’ll understand if you say no. But I had to at least try, please understand that.”

He sees tears welling in her beautiful blue eyes. He reaches for her, drawing her into his embrace, as if he wants to take her inside of him where no one and nothing can ever hurt her. “If that’s what you want,” he sighs. He wants to be by her side. He knows Ed is capable. The relief he feels that Sansa and Ed aren’t together. He doesn’t feel right about it. But he won’t feel right about it if he refuses now that she’s asked this of him. And that is more important to him. He can’t say no to her. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you, sweetheart.” He kisses her forehead once again. Lingers too long. When he pulls back, he can’t help but look at her perfect mouth.

But then she burrows into his chest and he holds her impossibly tighter. “Thank you, Jon. I know it’s a lot to ask but thank you so much.” She breathes in relief against him, he feels her body relaxing. And he can breathe easier too. They sway slightly in each other’s arms. He pets her hair, murmurs soothing sounds in her ear. He thinks he was made for this. For her. To keep her safe and give her comfort.

“But can I ask—why does it matter, Jon?” she asks, muffled against him, and his chest constricts. He thinks he may never know peace.

“Why does what matter?”

It’s a stupid lie; one she’ll see right through. But it helps him stall.

“You know what, Jon,” she steps out of his embrace and he misses the feel of her body against his instantly. He thinks he may actually grieve it. “I don’t feel that way about Ed. But why does it matter so much to you?” She is looking at him curiously, probingly. He thinks she is trying to solve a puzzle. One he’s unintentionally given her all the pieces to, because he is so obvious and he cannot help himself.

“It doesn’t,” he mutters pathetically.

“You made it quite clear it does, Jon,” she says. She’s looking at him and he thinks he’s going to suffocate from the heat in the room. “Why should it matter, Jon? Don’t you trust him?”

“Of course I do,” he says.

“You trust him, but I couldn’t be with him? Why, Jon?” she demands, and he can see the determination in her eyes. She moves closer to him. He knows she isn’t about to let this go. But he doesn’t know how to lie to her about this.

Not now. Not when they’re in his bedroom and her cheeks are flushed from their argument and her tears, and he can’t stop thinking about how he would lick and nip all over her body if he could get her on his bed.

“It doesn’t matter, Sansa,” he says. He is trying to walk past her, trying to leave the room, realizing it’s ridiculous as this is his room, but not seeing another way out. Then she grabs his arm. Her touch sparks within him and he is burning. Burning for her.

“I want to know why,” she says and forces him to look at her, grabbing his chin in her hand. He sees it then, when he looks in her eyes and he finds he cannot look away. Those eyes are brilliant and fiery as she looks at him, looks directly into him. But most of all, her eyes ( _her eyes_ ) are knowing. It’s a realization he can’t deny. She must know. How he feels for her in the way he shouldn’t. It’s not like he’d done a good job of hiding it. But she doesn’t look horrified. She looks—God, is he seeing things? She looks like she wants him too. The way she’d grabbed hold of him. Refused to let him walk away. And now she’s demanding it of him, like it’s a challenge.

A challenge he can’t walk away from.

“You _know_ why,” he says in a voice so low it’s nearly a growl, and he can hear just how predatory he sounds, but that doesn’t stop him. It doesn’t stop him from stepping into her space. If she wishes to challenge him, then he will challenge her too.

She looks at him. Her eyes widen. Her chest heaves. She licks her lips. He feels himself inhale sharply. “I want to hear you say it,” she says.

And he’s backing her up until her back is to the wall and he’s right there in front of her, caging her in with his hands on either side of her head. He’s leaning into her, their faces almost touching and for a second their noses brush each other, they’re both breathing heavily. Unable to stop himself now. She will either hate him or…

“Because you’re _mine_ Sansa. All mine,” he whispers. He can’t stop. He just can’t. He pants, waiting for her to slap him or shove him away.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she rakes her eyes over him, noting their proximity, and her gaze is hot when she looks him in the eye once more. “Then show me,” she says breathlessly. 

And it’s all he needs to crash his mouth to hers. His tongue forces its way into her mouth, and she keens and he’s grabbing her, crushing her body against his, his hands roaming her back. Her hips, her ass. She must feel him hard against her, but she only kisses him back. Kisses him harder. 

“Is that what you want?” he mutters against her mouth. “You want me to take you, Sansa? You want me to make you mine?”

“Yes,” she gasps. “ _Yes_ , Jon, please, take me.” And something within him snaps as she pleads.

One hand goes to the back of her neck, holding her mouth firmly against his as he strokes his tongue against hers. Somewhere deep down, he knows this is wrong. But he can’t bring himself to care. Not when she wants him like he wants her. His other hand is reaching beneath her blouse, touching her soft skin with an urgency that’s too desperate to be called a caress. He moves up, cups her breasts in his hands through the lace of her bra, moans into her mouth and she answers him with a needy whine.

He pulls his mouth from hers abruptly to rip her top from her. She unsnaps her bra before he even gets the chance, and he captures her dusky rose nipple in his mouth, his hot tongue lapping at her as she mewls and arches herself against him.

He’ll burn in hell for this, he thinks. His father would kill him. His brother Robb would kill him. Catelyn would castrate him first and then kill him for touching Sansa, her precious daughter. But it doesn’t stop him, not even close. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life as he lays his sister on his bed, ready to take her like she’d begged him to.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this, Sansa?” he asks in a voice he barely recognizes, and he knows she’s drawn the beast inside of him out. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” He asks her as he helps her discard her pants, kisses his way up her long supple legs. He pauses to lick at her upper thigh, biting gently, and she moans for him so prettily.

“Do you have any idea, Sansa? How long I’ve wanted to touch you?” he asks and he’s pulling her panties down, revealing her sex to him and he nearly cums then and there as he gazes at the thatch of red hair and notices how her lips are wet for him. “How long I’ve wanted to put my cock inside of you?”

She moans again. “I want you to do it, Jon. I need you inside me,” she says.

He groans, so ready to do it. “I will, but first I want to taste you,” he tells her, eagerly ducking his head between her thighs and licking her long and slow, groaning into her as her taste floods his senses. She bucks her hips against him when his tongue flicks over her clit. He thinks he could cum just from this, and his cock aches but he wants to make her cum with his mouth first. He puts two of his fingers inside of her and she’s practically thrashing against him now. His tongue works at her rapidly, his fingers curl inside her. He breathes against her: “Are you going to cum for me Sansa? Are you going to cum for your brother?” He is surprised at what he’s saying, but he supposes this is the flipside of his shame, as both their bodies react to his words. She cries out and then she’s cumming against his tongue and around his fingers and he can’t wait to feel her tighten like that around his cock.

When she finally stops contracting and tensing, he pulls his fingers out of her and lifts his head from her. He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks the taste of her off him, moaning, and his cock twitches in need. She’s pulling him down to her, kissing him and he knows she must taste herself. She is pulling his shirt up and he just now realizes he’s still fully clothed, but they take care of that quickly.

“You want this, Sansa?” he asks as he lines his cock along her cunt, nearly inside of her but not yet.

She nods. He thinks back to her words earlier. “I want to hear you say it, Sansa. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me Jon, I—oh,” she gasps as he’s slamming into her now, no longer able to hold himself back.

She feels incredible. So wet, so tight, so hot for him. He’s never felt so good, and it’s too much and not enough as he thrusts into her repeatedly, drawing moans from them both. “You feel so fucking good, Sansa. So good on my cock. You’re so wet for me, aren’t you baby?” he asks, teasing her as he reaches for her clit.

“Yes, Jon. Yes. I love you inside of me,” she gasps.

He groans, fucking into her harder. Wanting, needing, more. Knowing he could fuck her forever and it’d never be enough. Her body is sliding up the bed from the force of his thrusts, but she just grips him harder. He kisses her, his tongue licking into her mouth and she pulls his hair as her tongue eagerly moves against his. He can hardly believe that she seems to want this as much as he does.

“Harder, Jon,” she commands against his mouth. He moans and obliges, pounding into her now. She cries out and he lifts up to pull her legs further apart, hitting even deeper inside her.

“Oh yes, Jon!” she is nearly screaming for him now, just like his fantasies come to life before him. He rubs her clit harder, and her head throws back against his pillow.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he asks, continuing his furious pace, snapping his hips against hers, the sound of their skin slapping together accompanying their panting. “You like the way I’m fucking you, Sansa?” He’s barely getting enough air to speak, but he wants to hear it.

“Oh god, yes! Don’t stop, Jon. Don’t stop fucking me.”

“I won’t baby. I won’t ever stop,” he promises. And he can feel her clenching around him. She’s close, and so is he. He thinks they just might cum together.

“Uh, fuck Sansa! Your cunt is so sweet. You feel so fucking good.” He’s near the edge now, but he’s got to get her over it too. Pounding into her, rubbing at her clit in fast circular strokes, he tells her: “I want you to cum for me, sweetheart. Cum for me, baby. Cum all over your brother’s cock.”

And that does it. She cums around him, crying his name and he spasms inside her wildly, filling her pussy with his cum, groaning her name, “Sansa—uh,” and his eyes roll back in his head. He’s never cum so hard in his life.

He collapses against her, sinking into her embrace and she holds him tightly to her. He’s never felt closer, a feeling much like when he had her breathe with him. Never been closer, he is sure, to another person.

He knows he could drown in her. Maybe he wants to. Wants to forget everything that might await them outside his door.

He holds her tight. Kisses her temple. She brushes the curls off his forehead. He almost laughs because it reminds him of when they were children. He smiles at her instead, fearing the sound would disrupt whatever sacred, comforting silence has now gracefully blanketed over them.

Will this hurt them? Will this help them? He doesn’t know. But she looks at him and it feels like everything is going to be alright somehow. He watches her fall asleep next to him, so in love with her that it threatens to split him open. What he does know, regardless: he doesn’t regret it. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

And he doesn’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that good for you?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone readies themselves for what is to come. Littlefinger's message arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is a bit different because it has several POVs outside of Jon and Sansa. Including (blech) Littlefinger. This chapter is still primarily Jonsa but I hope the other POVs are interesting as well.

After the first time, he cannot stop himself. Jon cannot keep his hands off her, pulling Sansa into darkened corners, dragging her into his room, her room, a hall closet; anywhere that Jon can latch his mouth to her neck, draw his hands up her thighs, have her body against his writhing and the whines coming from her throat so prettily, be inside her wet tight heat as she clings to him perfectly.

_Flawlessly._

Because that is what she is—flawless. Perfect. She always had been. And it was enough to make him want to cry, but instead he just holds onto her, kisses her— _loves her loves her loves her_

Because it is all he can do, to offer her his everything.

And she is like heroin shot into his veins, addictive; all-consuming.

It is almost enough to make him forget—

Why he shouldn’t be doing this, with her. His sister.

_Half._

Some part of his mind urges the distinction. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Not to him.

It wouldn’t stop him.

Nothing would stop him. Because the way she wanted him too—wanted him _back,_ that changed everything. He can hardly believe that she would gift him this—her body, yes. But it is more than that.

(It was always more than that).

Gift him her heart, her soul, her being. To trust him with all of it. The weight of it—that trust he can feel settling itself like an anchor. Steadying them.

It is everything.

But he knows why he shouldn’t, even as he chooses to disregard it. Knows it like the shame he’d carried for so long for what he feels for her.

Knows that with every lick of his tongue into her mouth, every grasp of her flesh in his hands, every mark he wears into her skin—sucking, biting, licking the wound,

And every mark she wears into his—her fingernails, her teeth,

It is a betrayal. He is betraying, with each minute he spends drowning within her: his father, his brother Robb, his younger siblings who could be out there somewhere—Bran, Arya, Rickon. He betrays them all, again and again.

Like so many broken promises left behind in the wreckage of what their lives were supposed to be.

Yes, he betrays them.

And the part that scares him is he knows he would never choose differently.

What scares him is the knowledge that he could betray anyone.

Anyone but her. _Sansa._ And he would betray anyone _for_ her.

And maybe it is that fear too. That they might die. That she might die. Because his own life would never feel worth as much. But when they are locked in each other’s embrace, when she pants, and sweats and her eyes roll back—

She is so fully alive.

\---

And they are ready, he thinks. Ready to fight. Ready to win. Their plans worked out, strategies.

Jon doesn’t know how to step back, but he’s promised her. Ed is ready. His men are ready. Howland’s men.

He doesn’t think Littlefinger would keep to the terms Sansa had laid out for him in the letter. It would be a suicide mission in all likelihood to abide by those terms. Littlefinger had few options given what Sansa had on him, and with his back against the wall, he may be more dangerous to them. However, he also knows that Sansa is right that desperate men make mistakes. And he knows that Sansa knows Littlefinger better than Jon ever could.

Sansa knows he prefers to talk, argue, and outwit rather than fight with fists or guns or knives. He would want to win where he excels.

He would want Sansa to grant him his victory and her love.

Her _love._

The thought churns his stomach. But if Sansa is right—that Littlefinger _loves_ her in some sort of way that still allowed him to abuse and manipulate and imprison her—then he will be a man desperate in more ways than one.

If Sansa is right—then Jon thinks he sees a way to win.

\---

Sansa comes to him when he asks her to, or Jon goes to her when she wants. It doesn’t matter which, really. Now that they have spent time learning each other’s bodies, it only adds to that feeling he’d always had (a feeling he _knew_ she shared even if they’d never spoken it)—that they understood each other, in a quiet, simple, effortless way that they didn’t have with anyone else. Now, it has only been amplified. They can speak without speaking, communicating with just a look, a gesture, even the way Sansa held her posture, he could sense what she needed.

And what she needed, thrillingly, was Jon. And the storm brews within them both.

That need for Littlefinger’s downfall—his blood, his empire—it fueled them both in a way. Fed his rage into hers and back again. And maybe it was sick, but Jon feels that thrill now that he foolishly thought he could escape, feels it running like an electric current as Sansa gasps beneath him and _begs_ him to promise her that he’ll fall.

“Promise me, promise me, Jon,” grappling onto his shoulders, her legs clamped around his waist, her ankles at the small of his sweat-slick back—

“I promise, Sansa, I promise, love,” he says as he pounds into her, drives his cock deeper inside her, feels her breasts press against his torso, “we will destroy him. He will _die_ for what he’s done.” And she cums around him. And soon he follows, spilling into her, the line of her throat and collarbone the only thing to muffle his desperate groan of her name.

\---

Sansa can hardly think of the shame of it, when her brother fucks her and she cannot control her moans, when he must clamp his hand over her mouth.

The truth is—she has never felt so good in her life. Never known such pleasure, such heat coursing through her it is unbearable and exquisite all at once.

She wonders how it had taken them this long to get here. Because hadn’t she known?

Hadn’t she known when Shae had told her?

Hadn’t she known before that, really? The way he looked at her. So unlike Robb, her other big brother.

_“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this, Sansa?”_

His words from that first night come back to her.

The way he looked at her.

_“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?”_

The way his beard brushed against her when he kissed her cheek and said goodnight, before she’d gone back to plead with him to stay by her side when Littlefinger arrived.

_“Do you have any idea, Sansa? How long I’ve wanted to touch you?”_

Or was there another reason beneath it that drove her to his door late at night? Hadn’t some part of her wanted—hoped—for what came with his confessions?

_“How long I’ve wanted to put my cock inside of you?”_

The way he had _always_ looked at her.

Even when they were young. When she didn’t know what a look like that meant. She thinks maybe it should be strange to her. She thinks there’s something that’s twisted them both.

Because when she thinks of it, when he fucks her hard just the way she wants, when she thinks that he had _always_ wanted her, since they were children—

_“Are you going to cum for your brother?”_

It only makes her cum harder.

\---

She loves him. He loves her. Not the way a brother and sister are supposed to, but they do, all the same. It’s a love that feels unlike any other she’s experienced.

Never had a love made her feel so warm and so safe. Even it if was wrong.

Never had a love made her feel so powerful. So _ready_ for the war to come. So capable of getting her vengeance. No, her justice. Because when she ( _they_ ) took down Littlefinger—

It would only be justice.

It would be a balm to her soul for when she wept bitterly that she didn’t get to be there—to _watch_ —when Cersei was killed.

It would be a tribute to her lost family. Even if they would hate her for loving her brother in such a way, for what she and Jon have done (and will do again and again).

They will have, at least in part, avenged House Stark.

Her and Jon’s anger have mated with each other as surely as their bodies.

God help anyone, she thought, who stood in their way.

\--- 

Petyr had made some mistakes in his life, that much was true. But it wasn’t until Sansa, his sweetling, was gone that he’d realized he’d made a major miscalculation—he’d thought Sansa’s bastard half-brother would mean nothing to her. She’d never spoken of him to Petyr, but he knew his beloved Cat had hated the boy and kept him away from precious Sansa as much as possible.

Petyr still burns at the memory of Cat coming to him, nearly hysterical when Ned had brought another woman’s child into her home. Of course, Ned Stark was a useless fool, who only got so far in life because of his family name. Of course, Ned Stark would win Cat’s heart and take her away from Petyr, the man who should have been her husband. A man that never would have strayed from her. He could hardly believe that Cat had forgiven him and stayed with him. She was ungrateful to Petyr’s kindnesses. All of his efforts to undermine the Stark family, to break their hold on the North, had been for her, and yet she would never appreciate it, appreciate _him._

But Sansa, _sweet_ Sansa had always appreciated him in ways her mother didn’t. Truthfully, Petyr loved Sansa even more than he had loved Cat, and he never would have thought such a thing possible. The girl—woman—of course presented difficulties for him. For too long she had cried over her family and it became tiresome. But her romanticism was also what made her so easy to seduce, so he couldn’t complain too much. She was good to him, served him, just as a good woman should. She was going to be his wife, a perfect wife as he’d raised her from a child and molded her to the woman he needed. A woman who understood his business. As much as Petyr hated to let other men slip money into her G-strings, it was necessary she be willing to sacrifice herself that way to further build their fortune. It had showed him she’d do whatever he asked, and as soon as she was Sansa Baelish, she’d never dance again.

Petyr had thought that over their years together she’d seen him as the only family she ever needed. But when Petyr had spotted the footage of her brother, he could finally begin to piece together why his beloved Sansa had run. She loved Petyr, that he knew. But of course, being reunited with a long-lost relative had led her to act impulsively. She would need to be punished, that was for certain. But she would not be his real target—he loved her too much to hurt her too permanently. Her brother, however, would pay. Petyr could only guess that he was behind the blackmail scheme. Sansa was sharper than the Lannisters gave her credit for, but his poor girl was so easily manipulated when her emotions got the best of her. Petyr was sure she’d only wanted to please her brother, and perhaps, Petyr could acknowledge, this was partially due to his emphasis on pleasing others as he’d taught her over the years (it was just that really, she was only supposed to please _him_ ).

He would fix all of this. He didn’t care of the men he may sacrifice, as long as Gregor survived, Petyr was certain he could rid the world of Jon Snow. He only needed to make her see that Jon Snow was not worthy of her love, not worthy of being called her family. Then he was confident he would have the woman he couldn’t live without back in his arms.

\---

He almost couldn’t believe it when Jon had come to him and told him that he would lead the defense and Jon would remain secluded with Sansa. Ed agreed when Sansa had asked him, because he loved to see her smile. Because he understood that after everything she’d been through, she needed Jon, her only family, by her side. But Jon’s pride and his temper—he’d wondered how she would get through to Jon. But he knew Jon was absolutely wrapped around her finger, so he supposed it made sense.

If it were anyone other than Sansa, Ed thinks he would have been able to taunt Jon over it, but truthfully, wasn’t Ed wrapped around her finger just the same? It was embarrassing. He was a hard man and liked to come across that way—in this world, it was a must. He wasn’t like Tormund, a man who could be brutal as all hell when he was gunning down or stabbing some enemies like they were nothing but butter he could slice right through—and then become a guffawing jokester when it wasn’t war. Tormund could only do that, Ed reckoned, because he was a mad man. But Ed wasn’t a mad man. He was hard on the streets and with their enemies and he was hard through the other parts of life too.

But Sansa brought something out in him that made him almost unrecognizable to himself. She fuckin’ made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He wanted her happy. Wanted her safe. Wanted her, he could admit to himself. He knew nothing would ever happen between them; Sansa didn’t see him the way he saw her—he could tell. And even if she did, Jon would gut him for daring to touch Sansa. Ed was happy he got to be her friend.

Sometimes, he thought Jon might look at Sansa the same way he did. Sometimes, he thought Sansa looked at him back that way. He knew it wasn’t _right_ exactly, but he supposed reuniting after all that time brought up some complicated feelings. When he listened to Jon talk about Sansa, there was always something wistful in his eyes and dreamy in his voice. He thought that if something happened between the two of them, he wouldn’t judge them for it. The thought of it hurt, yes, but he did want Sansa happy. Did that mean it was love he felt for her? Ed didn’t know. He’d never loved a woman that way so how could he tell? Feelings weren’t his thing, and he liked it that way. But he would do this for Sansa and for Jon too. He sure as shit hoped he didn’t die, but that was the thing in his line of work, you never really knew. If he couldn’t lay his life on the line for two of the best people he knew, who the fuck was he? He was proud Jon trusted him to lead, and he thought that yes, he was ready.

\---

Brienne is pretty sure Jon and Sansa are fucking. She hasn’t asked Sansa. She can’t bring herself to. She’d long ago stopped thinking of Sansa solely as the girl, now woman, she was sworn to protect, and knew her to be a friend. But this seems too sensitive for Brienne to broach. And the more she thinks about it, she’s not sure she wants to know. She thinks it’s wrong, but she thinks Sansa is happy, so she can’t find it in herself to begrudge where she’s found that happiness. Even if it makes her uncomfortable. Sometimes she finds she has to leave them alone, because the air is too heavy.

It’s strange though, when she watches Jon and Sansa together and thinks they look so in love. It makes her feel…a little lonely? She’s never been in love. There’d been men, but none that really stuck. None that she really wanted to. Now that Sansa’s safer than she’s ever been in the time Brienne’s known her, maybe she’s starting to feel like she could want more for herself.

She’s been fending off Tormund’s clumsy attempts at flirting for a while now. She didn’t know what to make of the man at first. He just stared at her. Given, men and some women have stared at her before. She’s a woman over six feet tall and is muscular. But the way he looks at her is different.

He stares at her in something like awe. He stares at her like no one’s ever told him it’s rude to stare at someone. It makes her uncomfortable. But she’s come to respect him, she supposes. He seems loyal to Jon, makes Sansa laugh. There are times when Brienne is tempted to laugh when he’s joking or being ridiculous, which is about ninety percent of the time. But she bites the inside of her cheek to keep it in. She doesn’t know when she started doing that. As a bodyguard, she’s had to make sure people take her seriously. Especially as a woman. And unfortunately, her unconventionality seemed to make her the butt of the joke far too often in the past.

But now, maybe she can want more. Maybe she can let herself laugh.

\---

Brienne was staring at him in a way that made Jon uneasy. He thought that she had begun to warm up to him, just a bit, after Sansa had revealed what she knew about Littlefinger and Jon had reassured Sansa that no one held her responsible or thought her lesser. But now, it seemed whatever progress was lost. Whenever he entered a room and Brienne spotted him, she narrowed her eyes. She was following his movements now, as he was helping to teach Sansa how to wield a blade.

Sansa had learned some from Brienne and Shae already, but not enough in Jon’s opinion. Especially after Jon had found he could easily grab her knife from her and turn her own weapon against her. Sansa was not going to be alone in any of this if they could help it. But Jon knew they had to expect the unexpected, and the fact that Jon could so swiftly overpower Sansa scared the shit out of him. He wondered if Brienne was offended that Jon had decided to work with Sansa on his own after Brienne had trained her some. But as Jon put his hand around Sansa’s waist and Brienne stiffened whenever he and Sansa’s bodies touched, he feared her offense was for another reason.

Truthfully, Jon had done little to hide it. Sansa did not seem much concerned either. Of course, Jon wasn’t kissing her or anything of the sort in plain view. But if Jon and Sansa had been close before, they were practically attached at the hip now, and it seemed some, like Brienne, were starting to notice. Jon didn’t care what people thought of him, as long as they treated Sansa with respect, and he couldn’t imagine Brienne becoming disrespectful to Sansa. If she did, Brienne would have him to deal with.

“Don’t hesitate Sansa,” he instructed when Sansa had him pinned on his back. She was getting better. “Because they won’t hesitate with you.” It pained him to speak so bluntly, but they both knew it to be the truth. Sansa nodded, a fierce look in her eye that gave Jon pride and sparked his desire. She shuffled off him and helped him to his feet. When he looked again, it seemed Brienne had left. “Do you think she knows?” he asked Sansa, approaching her and placing his palm on her hip.

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” Sansa said. He could see that Sansa meant it. And Jon couldn’t help but agree. After everything that had happened and all his time self-loathing, to have Sansa by his side and loving him back was too perfect for him to begrudge it, despite the circumstances. He found he only wanted a few things: Sansa, safe and happy and his, and the revenge he had promised her.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him, kissing her so fiercely it stole the breath in his lungs. Sansa wrapped her arms around him and walked them backward, until she was in front of the room’s door and she locked it while keeping her eyes fixed on him. Brave Sansa, fierce Sansa, _his_ Sansa. When his tongue met her warm skin, flushed from their practicing, she shuddered in his arms. As she guided his cock into her, she moaned and kissed him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. They held onto each other the same way they loved each other, like they both were the thing that allowed the other to breathe. And as she spasmed around him, Jon knew this was the truth.

“I love you, Sansa,” he whispered like it was a secret. It had been one in his heart for so long, but no longer. And he thought that no matter how many losses they had faced and how many obstacles were still to come, he was the luckiest man in the world when she echoed his declaration back to him.

\---

Littlefinger’s message comes through Sam’s system on a cold gray morning. Sansa and Jon had begun eating breakfast with Sam, as well as Gilly and Little Sam, waiting for what they knew was coming. Sansa drops her spoon into her bowl of half-eaten cereal, and it clangs with a sound that resonates in her head as she sits back against her chair.

Jon’s hand is on hers immediately, and when she looks over to him, she cannot help but swoon a little. He is looking at her with such love and protectiveness, but nothing about the expression is soft. No, because within his expression is the quiet rage that has been ignited by her former tormentor. In his face she can see the man he has become through the tragedies that tore their family apart, and the ways he has fought to have her with him again. She sees the man who tortured and killed for her and would do it again. Perhaps it should frighten her. In another time, before her father had died, perhaps it would have. But now it makes her feel powerful, protected, valued. It feeds the fire of her need for vengeance. And Sansa understands now that, even if she was the one to ask first, they both need this.

Sansa and Jon move to the other end of the table to look at Sam’s computer.

_Dearest Sansa,_

_I was deeply saddened to find you gone from your home that morning after the last time I set eyes on you, precious one. You know that I love you more than anything, and I won’t lie. It broke my heart to see you were gone from me. I know your reunion with your brother must have clouded your judgment. That I can forgive. However, your insolence to threaten me, after everything I have done for you, must be punished, Sansa. But I am nothing if not a generous man, as you already know. I will be with you soon, dearest, and I am sure we can work things out._

_All my love,_

_Petyr_

She finished reading the message and for a few moments stood perfectly still. Then suddenly she was running toward the sink, retching up the little breakfast she’d eaten. It was the first time, she realized, since getting away from the man and reuniting with Jon, that she had done so. She felt tears build in her eyes, but whether it was from the retching or the emotion of the moment, she couldn’t say.

She felt a warm hand on the back of her neck and recognized it as Jon’s immediately, his soft touch and callused fingers now as familiar as her own skin. “Shh, it’s okay Sansa. You’re okay,” he told her soothingly. Gilly brought him a wet washcloth and he placed it at the back of her neck now, easing some of the nausea that had overwhelmed her. He ran his other hand through her hair gently. “Nothing will happen to you, love,” he said. “I won’t let it.” And maybe it was foolish of her, but she believed him. She turned in his arms and buried her head in his chest. He kissed her hair and rested his chin on her head. He rubbed circles gently on her back, and there they stayed for some time, breathing each other’s air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Littlefinger's POV had me cringing, but I felt the story needed some of his perspective. He believes Sansa loves him because 1. he is a delusional egomaniac and 2. Sansa mastered playing the long game with him. While I am team Jonsa 100%, there is just something adorable to me about Ed crushing on Sansa. Next chapter: Littlefinger arrives. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest and say I'm nervous about this chapter because I've never written action/fight scenes before. However, direct character confrontation is more important in the story than larger fight sequences so I hope no one's too disappointed.

When Littlefinger arrives at the gates of the Reed Estate, the plans are mobilized into action. Ed, Tormund, and Gendry gather the men under Jon’s command while Howland collects his own.

Gilly, Little Sam, and others who aren’t fit for fighting are all taken to the underground rooms behind vaults to keep them removed from any danger. Tormund is decided as the one to greet Littlefinger at the gates. Tormund is a bit of a wild card, Jon knows. But they are also able to use it to their advantage. The mad gleam the man can get in his eye is enough to give anyone pause, and with a few other men by his side, they should be relatively safe.

Jon, Sansa, and Brienne are in Howland’s study. Deep into the mansion that is the main house, there are enough layers between them and outside that once Littlefinger arrives here, he should have little if any guard left. Howland and a handful of other guards are just outside the study. But they don’t anticipate that Littlefinger’s men will make it that far.

And he does have men, despite the instructions he was given. None of them are surprised, but Sansa grips Jon’s arm a little tighter when she finds out. “We’re going to be safe, Sansa,” Jon tells her, holding her to him. She always finds herself believing him, even when she had thought she stopped believing in heroes. She doesn’t know if this puts her in more danger, but she can’t regret it either way, even if she dies tonight.

\---

It begins in the courtyard. One of Littlefinger’s men shoots one of Howland’s in the kneecap, forcing the man down. Ed shoots the man point blank in the face. He sees Tormund shoot someone in the neck from the corner of his eye. It must have been the jugular, Ed reckons, because the man’s blood spurts outward coating Tormund’s beard.

Littlefinger is standing apart and away, as if completely unbothered by the display of his men being slaughtered, and it makes Ed’s blood run cold. He wants to move toward the man and grab him, but some other body throws itself against him, and Ed grabs the knife from his sleeve, stabbing the man in the gut before dropping him to the ground without a look back. He knows at least one of his own men is dead because he hears Gendry dragging a body out of the way, thinking he wouldn’t do it with an enemy. It gives Ed a renewed rush of anger, and he stalks toward Littlefinger with determination.

Out of nowhere, from his side, the biggest man Ed has ever seen tackles him to the ground. He isn’t even sure if the man is human. He throws Ed like a spoiled toddler would throw a toy he’d grown bored with, as if Ed weighs nothing. He feels the stone of the courtyard slamming against his back, and he hears Tormund roaring, making his way toward this giant and slashing someone’s throat when he gets in the way. Tormund is knocked back by this inhuman monster, who seems to make not a sound as he fights. Ed feels the monster’s boot on his neck, and the last thing he hears before losing consciousness is the oily sounding laugh of the man who had held Sansa hostage all those years.

Tormund and Gendry are covered in blood by the time they finish fighting. They look around for Littlefinger, ready to capture him and bring the man to Jon and Sansa, only to find he’s slipped away.

\---

When they hear the pounding on the door, Jon and Brienne ready their guns and Sansa pulls out her knife. “Howland?” Jon calls out.

Nothing. He feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. Someone pounds on the door again and Sansa jumps despite herself. Jon moves toward the door, but Brienne stops him and moves in front of him, motioning for him to get in front of Sansa, shielding her.

It happens quickly. Brienne opens the door and the next moment she flies across the room hitting the opposite wall. The force of the throw, her head smacking against the wall, leaves her unconscious and her body slumps to the floor, a line of blood dripping from her mouth. Sansa screams and Jon grabs her when she tries to reach for Brienne.

“Stay behind me Sansa!” Jon calls.

And then Sansa hears the voice that haunts her nightmares. “There you are then, precious one,” Littlefinger says.

Sansa is so angry she doesn’t think she can see straight, but she pushes Jon from in front of her and lunges toward Littlefinger in a rage. She is clawing at him with one hand and her knife slices open a bicep (it is only a flesh wound and she is disappointed) before she is lifted off the ground, the giant man wrapping his hand around her neck.

\---

Jon shoots at the monster in front of him, but he moves fast for someone of his size, and Jon misses, a bullet catching in the wall. He shoots again and hits the man’s arm, but he doesn’t loosen his hold on Sansa. Jon rushes toward them and points his gun, ready to shoot the giant in the head when Littlefinger yells “Gregor!”

The giant drops Sansa to the ground and grabs Jon, breaking the wrist that holds the gun, sending him to his knees. Gregor puts the gun right to Jon’s head. Jon feels it against him, and thinks this is it, that it’s over. He’s failed.

“Gregor, stop right now,” Littlefinger commands, and Gregor lowers the gun, stepping back until he is at Littlefinger’s side. Jon must admit he is confused but Sansa is crawling to him now and he sees the marks on her throat, and he can think of nothing else but how he will kill this monster as soon as he gets the chance.

She grasps his shoulders. “You’re hurt,” she whispers, her face a picture of concern. He looks down at his twisted wrist. Truthfully, he can’t even feel it. He is sure that it will hurt like hell later if he survives.

“Are you okay?” he asks her, tentatively touching the marks on her neck with his good hand and she is nodding, but he recognizes the feeling in his chest as his heart breaking to see her with bruises, no matter her reassurances.

“Such a sweet sight,” Littlefinger taunts. Sansa turns a glare on him, and she and Jon are rising to their feet. Littlefinger watches the way Sansa clings to Jon’s side and Sansa sees a flash of jealousy in his eye before he wipes it from his face. He shakes his head in amusement.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, sweet Sansa,” he says, and Sansa holds Jon back. “I thought we were here to talk, Sansa.”

“And you were supposed to come alone,” she says. He chuckles at that.

“I am no fool Sansa, I would think you had learned that by now,” he says and begins to step forward. When the giant steps with him Littlefinger commands, “Stand back for now, Gregor, we have much talking to do.”

Sansa’s head is spinning, and she can’t quite make sense of what’s happened. She looks at Littlefinger. “You said Gregor was dead.”

The giant merely crosses his arms and huffs as if irritated. Littlefinger looks at Sansa and shrugs, with a smirk playing on his lips. “He was in a coma for a long time, they didn’t think he would come out of it. But I guess miracles do exist. I know how he frightened you, so I figured to keep him away from you.” Jon notices how Gregor looks completely disinterested in the conversation, and he wonders at what point a person stops being a person, and merely becomes a weapon.

_If I had known, if I had known I could have warned Jon and Ed and everyone_ , Sansa thinks.

“Then again, I never thought I would need to use him against you. You disappoint me, Sansa,” Littlefinger says.

This statement makes Sansa even more angry even if it seems such a slight thing to say. The entreaty, the smoothness of his voice, but the slight scold in his tone. It is how he often spoke to her—as if he couldn’t decide if she was to be his daughter or his wife—and it disgusted her.

“I’ve missed you,” Littlefinger tells Sansa, who sneers at him. “And you may not act like it, but I know you’ve missed me too.”

“No Petyr, I haven’t,” she says plainly. She will not use her courtesies with him, not anymore. Things are different now. She has Jon now. And they will make him pay.

Littlefinger looks unaffected by her declaration and glances to Jon. “I suppose your brother has turned you against me, then?” he asks, looking back to her.

“She didn’t need any help with that,” Jon says, voice hard. Jon has never hated anyone as much as he hates the man in front of him. And he knows that no matter what, he must survive so he can ensure Sansa finally takes Littlefinger down. Like she wants. No, he thinks, like she _needs_.

Littlefinger looks to Jon again, and a small smile quirks his lips. “You know, I must admit, I never would have expected Sansa to run away with you.”

Jon huffs at that but says nothing. Sansa has helped him understand even more how men like Littlefinger need to run off at the mouth. “After all, Catelyn did everything to keep the two of you apart,” he says. Sansa sees Jon trying not to flinch at that.

Littlefinger looks at Sansa with something like actual feeling in his eyes. “I am your family, Sansa. Not him,” he says.

Sansa laughs without humor. Jon sees that it truly appears to surprise Littlefinger for a second before he expertly schools his expression. “You are not my family. You took me—”

“I protected you,” he says.

“Is that what you call it?” she yells. Littlefinger looks startled. “You kidnapped me.”

“ _Kidnapped?_ Come now, Sansa,” he entreats her, and as Littlefinger is drawn into the conversation, Jon moves slowly and furtively back toward Brienne. If he is careful, he may be able to retrieve her gun. But he doesn’t move too much. This Gregor may notice if he isn’t careful.

“Would you rather have stayed with Cersei?” he asks.

“I’m supposed to be grateful you took me from one captor and made yourself the next one?” she asks coldly. She isn’t afraid of him anymore. She will not cower. She will not back down.

“Sansa, dearest, I’ve given you everything your heart desired,” he says. Jon nears Brienne now. Gregor, blessedly, seems to be watching his boss and Sansa talking rather than paying attention to Jon, his need to protect his boss giving Jon an advantage.

“You made me strip for you, you made me touch you,” she says, trembling. But it isn’t with fear. It’s anger that makes her shake. Anger that lights her skin and raises her pulse. And not just any anger but a _righteous_ anger. An anger that lets her know that whatever else has changed her over the years, however else they may not recognize her, she is still a Stark. She is still her parents’ daughter, flawed though they might have been.

“Sansa,” Littlefinger says now, and his voice is almost gentle. But Sansa recognizes it for the manipulation that it is. “We are in love,” he tells her. She wonders at how she did that. How she really made him believe it. Some small part of her that she knows not to pay heed to worries what Jon will think of it.

“No,” she says, and she moves closer to Littlefinger now. She wants him to know. She wants him to feel it when she sinks the knife of her words into him, sharper than any blade. “No, you may love me, Petyr, but I never loved you,” she says in a condescending voice as if she is talking to a child.

“Sansa—”

“You are _nothing_ to me,” she raises her voice and Littlefinger steps back, and satisfaction floods her senses to see him hesitant. To see, perhaps for the first time, that Sansa was more than he ever knew. “You mean _nothing_ to me. Each time we sat down to dinner I fantasized about killing you. Each time we were together I would retch afterward. Each time I brought my tips to you every night…” she lowers her voice and steps toward him. Gregor moves closer and Jon is ready to abandon his plan until Littlefinger halts him with a commanding hand, all while Littlefinger’s eyes never leave Sansa’s. “I’d already given half of them to Brienne and Shae,” she says and Littlefinger’s jaw clenches.

She chuckles darkly, crosses her arms beneath her chest. “Don’t you see now, Petyr? You thought _Jon_ turned me against you? That he was the only reason I left?” Sansa looks at him now with what could be called pity, but it is too laced with disgust and contempt. “I’d been planning to leave you all along,” she says, a sweet smile gracing her features. Littlefinger looks at her without saying anything, as if he is trying to figure out if this is the truth or if she has rehearsed lies that Jon had coached her.

It is in that moment that Jon finally grabs Brienne’s gun, the noise causing Littlefinger, Sansa, and Gregor to look over at him. Gregor makes to charge toward him, but now Jon is quicker. It may not be his good hand, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks of Jaime Lannister, but he is proficient enough with it. Before Gregor can reach him, Jon shoots him between his eyes, and the giant’s brains splatter behind him as he falls to the floor, dead.

Littlefinger goes pale and stills. Suddenly he turns to Sansa and he seizes her by the throat. “You little bitch,” he spits at her. Jon sees red and is on him instantly grabbing him and slamming him to the ground. Jon stands with his boot to Littlefinger’s neck and points Brienne’s gun at his head.

“Don’t you _dare_ call her anything,” Jon snarls. Sansa steps to stand by Jon’s side. Littlefinger looks at them both, his eyes flitting back and forth, and he knows that somehow, he has lost.

Tormund and Gendry charge into the room at that moment, covered in blood and eyes flying around the room. Tormund looks to Jon. “His men are dead,” Tormund says, mad eyes gleaming. Gendry is looking at the body of the giant Gregor before them.

“And you killed this thing?!” Gendry asks in wonder. Jon only nods, turning his deadly glare back to the weasel beneath his boot. Tormund sees Brienne and rushes to her side, pulling her onto his lap, lightly smacking her face until her eyes begin to flutter and she appears to be gaining awareness.

“Thank God,” Tormund breathes.

Gendry looks to Littlefinger on the floor and back to Jon and Sansa. “So, is it over now?” he asks.

Sansa looks down at Littlefinger, finding him pathetic and small in a way she had never appreciated before. She smiles sinisterly and tells Gendry: “Not quite yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come with Sansa and Littlefinger, obviously. (And in case you're wondering, Ed is injured but alive, I didn't have the heart to kill him). Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally gets her revenge.

Their number of dead and wounded is comparably small, but Jon feels something he can’t describe when he sees Howland clinging to life. He is one of the last links to their father, to a time before Jon and Sansa existed, and the man had been generous enough to allow them to stay, to fight Littlefinger with them.

Meera corrects Jon when he describes this as a favor. “Everyone wants Littlefinger dead, Jon, so you better not wait too long before killing him. And you and Sansa are always welcome here, you know that,” her eyes are hard when she looks at him and Jon knows better than to disagree. She looks at her father. “And my father is not dead. He’s not going to die,” she says. And Jon doesn’t know why exactly, but he thinks she’s right.

Ed has a concussion but is otherwise fine, and Sansa feels no small amount of guilt, Jon knows, for the sacrifice she had asked him to make so Jon could be by her side. Still, he feels another little pinprick of jealousy when she brings him a glass of water and instructs Tormund to keep him awake. He shakes it off as quickly as it comes. Sansa helps him bandage his wrist, listens to the doctor’s instructions closely on how to care for the fracture and hovers about him with concern. He loves her. She loves him. There is no doubt in his mind about that anymore, and the way she cares for him in his injured state only amplifies it. He’s never had someone care for him like Sansa does. No, he tries not to feel jealous anymore because he knows Sansa is his.

Tormund and Gendry had helped to tie Littlefinger up when Jon could finally be convinced to take his boot off the man’s neck. Sansa looked at him sharply, the man who had kept her prisoner and abused her and called it love. And it was only when Jon watched Sansa look at him that it fully sunk in for him just how strong she truly was. Her fury was a sight to behold.

She and Sam release the information on Littlefinger through secure emails to shareholders in his clubs, resorts, and hotels. There is some debate on whether they should release to the media. But it is eventually decided that it is safer to rely on the shareholders leaking the information so as not to draw attention to them. It all happens fairly quickly, not that Littlefinger would know, locked in a room in the basement and kept guard 24/7. For a week, they have kept him locked away without sunlight or fresh air. With as little food and drink as possible. But Sansa has every intention of letting him know before he dies. She has every intention of saying and learning the things that have haunted her over the years.

Jon is with her when she goes to meet him, and Gendry stands guard. Littlefinger is in shackles so the guard is more a precaution than anything, but Sansa gets a perverse delight in the fact that he has no privacy; that someone watches him at every point and will do so for the remainder of his horrid life.

To some extent, Jon could say he is there as moral support. And it wouldn’t be a lie. However, he also wants to see Littlefinger suffer. Has come to crave it as much as Sansa.

Sansa walks toward him and rips the tape from his mouth. Littlefinger tries not to let his discomfort, his fear, show. He has been a smooth operator for a while and has plenty of practice. But he can’t hide it from her. Not now.

“And how are you today, Petyr?” she asks in a falsely pleasant voice. The man looks at her, worn and tired. But his eyes light up just the slightest bit when he looks at her.

“I’ve been better, dear,” he tells her. Jon fights the snarl working its way up his throat at the endearment. He doesn’t want to give Littlefinger the satisfaction.

But Sansa seems unaffected. “I imagine you have. A pity, really. Not exactly the Madison, is it?” she looks about the room. “Or any of your properties, really? Well, at least the legal ones.”

Littlefinger manages a smile but it doesn’t carry the same arrogance as it used to. “I always thought you admired my business acumen.”

Sansa snorts in laughter. “You thought I admired a lot of things I hated,” she says pointedly. Littlefinger looks away from her then, as if the pain of her rejection is too much to bear.

“I gave you everything, Sansa,” he says.

“I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself,” she says coolly. His eyes go back to her and are laced with bitterness. Sansa purses her lips, not wanting to show just how much that look on his face pleases her. Wanting to keep part of it for herself so he can’t touch it.

“Sansa, dear, can you deny that I gave you the best of everything? Fine clothes, fine silks, fine jewelry…”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you trapped me.”

“You had nowhere else to go—”

“Which you took advantage of, Petyr. You wanted me helpless. You wanted me to have no choice but to rely on you.” He purses his lips as he looks at her but says nothing.

“You said you would take me home,” she says.

Jon hadn’t known this was a promise he’d made her. How many years ago must it have been? Before or after Winterfell had been burned to the ground?

“And I intended to,” Littlefinger looks at her imploringly.

“But only when you could take it for yourself,” she bites back.

“Am I supposed to apologize for wanting to marry the woman I love more than anything?” he asks her. Jon stiffens and begins pacing the room in small circles. He’s unable to sit still and listen to the man’s words. That violence thrumming beneath his skin making him jittery.

Sansa huffs. “As if you had nothing to gain? As if you whisked me away for selfless reasons?”

“What do you want me to say, Sansa?” he asks. Jon thinks from the way Littlefinger studies her, that he _still_ thinks he might be able to talk himself out of this.

“I suppose honesty is too foreign for you. Are you sure you would even know what the truth is, Petyr, beneath all the layers you bury it with?”

“I know that I love you,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his voice, the way he looks to Sansa for some sort of reaction. It makes Sansa angrier, somehow, because she believes him.

“And you hated my father,” she says, not so much a question but a statement.

Littlefinger sighs and looks to the floor. “Yes.”

“You liked the idea that if you had me, you could take the North from the Starks. It was for _yourself_ Petyr, all your supposed generosity,” she says.

“It was for the both of us,” Littlefinger says, meeting her accusatory gaze.

Sansa studies him and she thinks Littlefinger really believes it. That he’d taken care of Sansa. That his imprisonment was ultimately benevolent.

“You cannot tell me you felt nothing for me, Sansa,” he says, his eyes boring into her with a greedy gaze that makes her want to recoil, but she won’t let him see it.

“Can’t I?” she says tauntingly.

His eyes harden then. “And I suppose you told your brother about all the times you opened your legs for me?”

Sansa slaps him, hard, as Jon steps forward and growls: “watch your fucking mouth.”

“You think your sister is sweet and innocent?” he turns to Jon. But Sansa barely hears what he’s saying, hypnotized by the red print of her hand on his face. It makes her think of all the ways she might mark him as she hurts him.

Jon has said something back to Littlefinger, and she can tell he’s angry. But she hasn’t followed their conversation. She is running her fingers along the knife in her sleeve.

“Let’s face it, Sansa. If you truly felt nothing for me, but you gave yourself to me over and over as I paid for you to live in luxury, then you are just a whore,” Littlefinger spits at her bitterly, and his words bring her back to the moment with sharp clarity.

Just like that, she is pulling the blade from her sleeve with one hand and grabbing the back of Littlefinger’s head with the other. She holds him back, bares his neck to her. She lightly grazes the skin there with the knife, just enough to make a dribble of blood.

“Sansa—Sansa, you don’t want to do this,” he says. The fear in his voice gives her a comforting feeling of warmth, soothing as a lullaby.

She leans toward him. “Don’t I?” she whispers. He closes his eyes shut beneath her steel gaze. She lifts the knife from his throat and points the blade just under his right eye, causing them to open again. The desperation swimming in them is intoxicating. She cannot look away as she presses the blade a little harder, delighting in his whimper until a streak of blood runs down his face. When it mixes with his tears, she finally steps away.

“I think that’s enough for today,” she says. She cannot afford to keep him alive for long, she knows. But not yet. She has to let him stew in his uncertainty just a little longer. And so, they leave him in the dark, with only the shifting, silent guards for company.

\---

“Are you ready, Sansa?” Jon asks her cautiously as she stands before him. Today is _the_ day. The day she plans to kill him. Jon feels a little nervous, though he’s not sure why.

“I’m ready,” she says, and he sees the desperation in her movements as she puts her gun in a holster behind her back. She wants him dead, needs him dead. Jon can see she is nearly frantic, shaking with that need. And he has to step toward her now, place a hand on her elbow, kiss her cheek softly. So many things about her—about them—are hard, but he thinks she needs softness too.

“Breathe,” he whispers, and she leans into him, and he wraps one arm around her waist.

“I am breathing,” she says, and the bit of defiance makes him smile. He moves his good hand up to caress her cheek.

“Don’t forget that when you’re in there,” he tells her, meeting her deep blue eyes. “No matter how angry you are, don’t forget to breathe.” He knows the way rage can ruin you. He doesn’t want to take her rage away, not when he sees how it has helped her survive. But he does want to help her find a way to live with it.

She nods, leans forward and kisses him. Their foreheads rest against one another for a moment as they linger, before she pulls away from him and heads to the door. “Shall we?” she asks, her hand on the knob.

He moves forward, knowing he’d follow her anywhere.

\---

She wants answers, before he dies. She needs to know the fullest extent of his crimes that she can manage to wring out of him. She’s always understood some of his mindset. And the days she’s spent circling him like her prey, prodding him with a blade, have brought her some clarity and a sense of peace. But she wants to know more, and what he’s giving her now isn’t enough.

It isn’t nearly enough.

After they enter the room and turn on the lights, Littlefinger’s eyes strain as he looks up at her. He looks smaller, somehow, she thinks. Perhaps he has already lost weight. He doesn’t say anything to her as she walks toward him, as he had done on the past days she’d met him down here. She sees how his spirit is flagging. His hope fading. But there is still a flicker of life in his eyes and she means to use it, if only to toy with him further.

Sansa pulls the gun from the holster behind her back. She’s only had a little time to get used to the feeling of one in her hands. But she grips it with surety as she checks to make sure it is loaded and puts the barrel back in place with an audible click. There’s a satisfying sense of control she feels with the sleek steel in her hands. Littlefinger stiffens in his chair, attempting to recoil but he is too shackled to move far.

Sansa is not about to kill him yet. But she wants him afraid. She’s always known that when it comes to real physical danger, Littlefinger crumbles. He looks at her with sad eyes. Eyes that try to appeal to a part of her that might sympathize. It’s just that he still doesn’t understand, even now.

There is no such part of her.

“Sansa, please,” he says weakly. Jon’s lips quirk. He remembers: _I want him to beg me, Jon._ She’s gotten part of what she wanted already.

“I am going to ask you some questions and you are going to give me answers. Is that understood?” Sansa’s voice is hard and unwavering. When he doesn’t answer quickly enough to her liking, she puts the gun to his head. “ _Littlefinger,”_ she snarls. At that his eyes widen, and he pulls his head uselessly away but Sansa grabs his lower jaw, dragging him back to her and the barrel of the gun right at his temple.

“Am. I. Understood?” she bites out, pressing the gun a little harder against him with each syllable.

“Yes,” Littlefinger says, voice low. She thinks she hears a soft, barely-there whimper in his throat and he is trembling beneath her gaze. It isn’t enough for her. Not nearly enough. But for now, it will have to do, and she lowers the gun minutely.

“Tell me how you plotted against my father and House Stark.”

“Sansa, please—”

“TELL ME!” She yells, a wild look in her eye, and points the gun at him again. “Or so help me, I will blow your _fucking_ brains out right now,” her voice gets eerily quiet.

Jon has never seen her like this. He knew how angry she was but seeing it like this—the way she’s unrestrained and taking charge, causing the pathetic man to cower, he thinks maybe it’s wrong, but he fucking loves it. Loves her.

“What did you do to my father and House Stark, Petyr?” her voice a deadly whisper.

The man actually chokes back tears. Jon can’t tell if they’re real or if he’s just trying to appeal to Sansa.

“I worked with the Lannisters. I encouraged Cersei to make a match between you and Joffrey.” Sansa’s eyes are blown wide with fury. But she keeps it in check. Jon, meanwhile, clenches his left fist and tries not to do it with the right, his wrist seems to pain him more the more this man talks.

“What else?” she asks.

Littlefinger lets out a breath. “I worked with Jaime—”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asks.

“Sansa please—”

“WASN’T IT?”

“I paid him for his services, yes.” Littlefinger says.

And that answer is so euphemistic Sansa thinks she goes blind for a moment. She slams the butt of the gun into his nose without even thinking about it. Jon can hear the pop from across the room. The man groans and his nose bleeds.

“Don’t be a coward, Petyr,” she spits. “Say. It.”

“I paid Jaime to kill your father.”

Jon is moving from across the room before he realizes it. His hand wraps around Littlefinger’s throat, lifting him and the chair forward. He can feel the man’s windpipe and he thinks how easy it would be to crush it. His face is going purple when he hears Sansa say: “Jon, stop.” It isn’t particularly demanding. He realizes she gave him some time to enjoy this before asking him to stop. It’s a new and strange kind of appreciation he feels for it. He lets Littlefinger go.

“What else? My mother, Robb?” she asks.

The man looks at her in surprise. “No, Sansa, your mother, I—”

“You loved her, yes, I know,” she says, nodding impatiently, as if bored with this information. Though, Jon supposes it makes sense she would be. How often, he wonders, did Littlefinger talk about Catelyn to Sansa? As if Sansa wasn’t her own person? Jon wants to choke him again but restrains himself.

“Now—the Stark Estate in Winterfell. Burned to the ground. My baby brothers and sister—” her voice catches.

None of them, not Jon, not Sam, and not Sansa, have found any trace of Bran, Arya, and Rickon. Their remains were never found in the ash, and it is possible they got away. But Jon and Sansa both know by now that it’s more likely they’re dead.

“Did you do it?” she says. Jon approaches her to stand by her side. He knows she needs him here.

Littlefinger looks at them. Sansa thinks, for a second, he looks almost human. Perhaps because he doesn’t have answers. “No,” he says. “I don’t know who did it. Probably the Lannisters, before Cersei died. After I cut ties with them.”

Sansa nods. Jon thinks that means she believes him. It doesn’t matter really if he was involved at the end of the day—Littlefinger had weakened House Stark at every turn and his work surely contributed to whomever was able to burn their home to the ground.

Littlefinger is looking at Sansa now, whether it is with love or hope or fear, Jon finds he can’t tell. In truth, he can hardly stand to look at the man.

“What happens now?” Littlefinger asks Sansa.

Sansa feels a heady rush of power at the question. Finally, he couldn’t dictate the rules of the game anymore. Finally, she was taking that control that he’d eroded over the years back from him. She stares at him musingly. “What do you think will happen, Petyr? I’m genuinely curious,” she says and circles lazily around him in his chair.

Littlefinger sighs. “You must know someone will look for me. I’m too important to too many people,” he says. It sounds almost like an appeal for mercy, but as if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Sansa stops circling to stand squarely in front of him. “I’m sorry, Petyr,” she says evenly, cocking her head to the side, “did you forget what you came here for?”

“I came here for you,” he says.

“Not just me,” she says. He stares at her. Just stares.

“Sansa,” he says, pauses, and licks his lips. He needs more water, Sansa knows, and it makes her smile. “You are the heir to my fortune. You wouldn’t destroy it.”

“Are you so sure, Littlefinger?” she asks pointedly. His head snaps up and now he looks uncertain—his eyes scan her face.

Without waiting for an answer, she turns around. “Gendry?” Gendry immediately steps forward, having made himself scarce for the duration of this meeting. “Would you be so kind as to bring me the laptop?” He nods and heads off.

Gendry, Sansa, and Jon pull up the small table to the side of Littlefinger’s chair and set the laptop on it. Sansa begins playing a video of news footage.

_Entrepreneur and Hotel Magnate Petyr Baelish implicated in human trafficking…_

And Sansa and Jon both see it, blessedly. They catch the look of utter and complete shock on Littlefinger’s face, he grows paler by the second, and his jaw is slackened.

_An FBI raid on his establishments revealed further evidence…_

_…brothels with victims, including underage…_

_Shareholders are dropping their investments…_

_…properties have shut down…_

_…a warrant has been issued for Petyr Baelish’s arrest…_

_…believed to be a fugitive, possibly in Mexico according to the latest reports…_

Sansa watches every twitch, every muscle in the man’s face. She never wants to forget this moment. How it felt.

And Littlefinger, that desperate snake of a man. A man who came from nothing and built from cruelty and subterfuge. That man…

Her supposed friend, her would-be protector, her captor, her abuser, her enemy…

That man before her shakes his head in disbelief and _laughs._

Honest to God laughs. There is nothing humorous about it, though. It is a choked and bitter sound that leaves him. As much a cry as it is a chuckle, really; because it is so utterly helpless as it shakes through him, so full of despair that the man can’t even process it properly. Jon doesn’t think he’ll forget it.

Neither does Sansa.

The man looks at her now, almost a shadow of who he had been, a ghost in his own skin. “You just gave up your own fortune,” he says. “It was going to be yours—ours—Sansa. I was going to make you my wife and you would live in the finest luxury you could ask for.”

He shakes his head. She’s never seen him look so mystified, so defeated. “You just throw that all away?” he asks softly as his eyes glaze over, utterly uncomprehending.

She shakes her head at him. She almost can’t believe she never saw it before. Sansa supposed it was the way he cloaked himself in intelligence, presented himself as cultured, and most crucially, as cynical. But now, she sees he was naïve in his own way too. Believing all he needed was money to make her—or her mother before her—love him.

“I never wanted that.” She says, clear and strong. She wants him to hear the sincerity: “I never wanted _you.”_

She pulls the gun up and points it at his head once again.

“Sansa, please—”

His plead is cut off by the gunshot. The bullet in his brain. He’s gone. Just like that. Sansa breathes and looks at Jon. They speak without speaking, the same words…

_It’s done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked so hard on this chapter and probably spent more time on editing and revisions on it than any other chapter because I wanted it to feel cathartic and satisfying. I also had Sansa call him Littlefinger (twice) as per a reader's request. I really hope it was satisfying for everyone to read! It's probably clear that the story is winding down now, but you can expect a few more chapters, a bit more smut and some actual fluff as I wrap things up for Jon and Sansa. Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa "celebrate".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a "breather" chapter, so not a whole lot of plot here, but there is some dark bloodlust-y smut, and a bit of fluff.

As soon as it's over, Jon is pulling her into his bedroom as quickly as he possibly can. “Jon, slow down,” she says as he drags her.

“Can’t,” he huffs and then he’s practically shoving her inside, closing the door with his foot, locking it behind him without even turning to look, his eyes locked on hers. “I need you _now,”_ he breathes and grabs her by the hips, pulling her to him. He crashes his lips to hers, licking and biting. He moans into her mouth as his good hand moves to cup her ass and squeeze.

“ _Jon,”_ she moans and as she begins to arch into him, he sets his mouth to her neck, tips her head to the side for better access.

“That was so fucking sexy, Sansa,” he groans, grinding his hips against her so she can feel how hard he is for her.

She laughs, light and breathy. “That’s what got you going?” she says, but she’s digging her hands into his hair and crushing her breasts against his chest.

“ _Yes,”_ he mutters and starts to undo her pants. He needs to be inside her. When he feels how wet she is, he knows she must feel as he does.

“Ungh, Sansa, you’re so fucking wet. You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Is that what you want? Do you want your brother to put his cock in your pretty little cunt?” God, he loves talking dirty to her. And he’s found she loves it. Especially when he reminds her that he’s her brother. He finds he likes that too, as wrong as it is.

“Yes, Jon,” she moans. “I want my brother to fuck me.”

He groans and rocks his hips into hers before pushing her backward. “Get on the bed for me, baby.” Their clothes are gone in a whirlwind.

“ _Fuck,_ Sansa,” he grunts when he thrusts into her. “You feel so good. You were so good in there, so strong. Fuck, Sansa, I can’t believe how much I loved watching you kill him.”

She moans and wraps her legs tighter around him. She rakes her nails down his back and he shivers, thrusting into her harder and deeper.

“Tell me, Sansa. Did you like seeing the look on his face? Did you like killing him?” Her cunt clenches around his cock even tighter as he pounds into her.

“Yes, Jon, yes,” she cries as he hits a spot inside her that makes her breath catch.

Suddenly, he flips their position. “Ride me, Sansa,” he says, gripping her hips and encouraging her to a rhythm. “Ride your brother’s cock.”

“Ahh, fuck, Jon!” she cries. He bucks up into her, unable to stop the desperate need to crash into her as hard as he possibly can. 

“Tell me, Sansa. Tell me what you liked about it,” he says. He knows it’s messed up, but he’s past the point of caring, really.

“Oh God, Jon,” she moans as she finds the right pace and position. His hands move up to grasp her breasts as she fucks him, thumbs running over her nipples before he rises up to take one in his mouth. She moans, clutching at him madly. “I like that you helped me, Jon,” she’s practically sobbing in pleasure, getting impossibly wetter as she sinks down onto him harder and faster. “I liked being in control. I liked, oh... I liked knowing he couldn’t hurt me,” she says. 

“I will _destroy_ anyone that ever tries to hurt you, Sansa,” he growls.

“ _We_ will destroy them Jon,” she gasps.

“Yes, God, Sansa, yes!” He’s blindly touching every inch of her he can reach. His hands grasp along her back, the feel of his rough hands against her soft skin nearly overwhelming him. He wants to be even closer, even deeper inside her.

“Jon, I’m gonna cum,” she cries breathlessly.

“Yes, that’s it, Sansa. Cum for me. Cum on my cock and let me fill you with my cum. Would you like that?" he groans as she clamps down harder around him. “You want my cum baby?”

“Yes, Jon please!”

“Fuck, Sansa, squeeze that tight little pussy around my cock!” he commands.

They cum together, far too loudly, Jon imagines. She collapses against him, their sweat making their hair stick to their foreheads. They both take a minute to catch their breath.

Sex with Sansa is so incredible, Jon can hardly believe he denied himself the pleasure for as long as he did. But he knows it’s more than that too. He knows it when he watches her face now, she’s sinking her body into his, and they fit so perfectly together. He sees her relax in a way he hasn’t since they’d reunited, and he knows it’s because it’s finally done. Littlefinger is gone. He’d gotten what he so richly deserved, and now Sansa doesn’t have to look over her shoulder anymore.

He brushes some of her hair from her temple. She looks at him and smiles almost shyly. It is so damn adorable that she can be shy after what they’d just done, after the filth that poured from his lips as he fucked her. He kisses her forehead. He kisses her lips. “I love you,” he says.

She reaches up and plays with his beard, making him chuckle lightly. “I love you too.”

\---

Sam has been working his way through Littlefinger’s files, ensuring there are no loose ends that need to be tied. The police have assumed that the man’s disappearance is due to him becoming a fugitive, or possibly killing himself. That had worked just as Sansa had planned.

But they leave no trace of him. They use acid to dissolve his body. There are no remains. It makes things easier, Sansa thinks. A world without him—a world without a trace of him—it’s the only thing that’s right. The only thing that’s justice. She feels so much _lighter_ now. There was a time in her life, for far too long, when she thought she’d never be free of Littlefinger. That freedom now, to not only be out of his clutches but to know he can never hurt her again—it heals something inside her she’d thought forever broken.

She can’t help but wonder what her father would think of what they’d done. Or her mother or her siblings. Some part of them would be happy to know he was gone, but would they be disturbed by the sheer sadism she displayed? Her father was a criminal—she knew he had killed people. But he never took pleasure in it. Then again, he’d never had to see what the rest of the Starks had been through after his death. Maybe if he had, he would have been the same. Regardless, she won’t hold onto fear about it. And she couldn’t make herself feel guilty for it even if she tried. Not after everything the man had done and put her through. She knew that in this world, the one in which she was forced to grow up too quickly, she had made her own justice. No one else would have been able to give that to her.

And she knows how much Jon wanted to kill the man himself. She loves him even more to know that he gave her that—let her have control. And it may be wrong, but what they have—it’s the healthiest love she’s experienced since her father died.

Guilt is a weight she won’t carry. She wants to be happy.

\---

Howland recovers, just as Meera said he would. The man wants to have a celebration over Littlefinger’s death. Jon almost forgets in his personal vendetta against the man just how many in the Northern Families wanted him dead.

Howland puts together a fancy banquet. Jon wears a suit. Sansa is fucking gorgeous in an emerald gown that hugs her curves perfectly. It makes her red hair and blue eyes stand out even more. He loves it, but he also kind of wishes no other man could see her in it. He keeps himself at her side all night, just so no one gets any ideas.

“So territorial,” she says under her breath and laughs.

“That’s because you’re mine,” he whispers. He can see the goosebumps on her arms. She likes when he gets possessive, even when she pretends that she doesn’t.

“Well, if I’m yours then you’re mine,” she tells him.

“Always,” he says with conviction. She tugs at his hand and he only understands the trap he’s fallen into as she pulls him to the dancefloor.

“Then dance with me,” she says, smiling her little vixen smile that she’s come to learn makes him melt like damn butter.

He groans, dragging his feet slightly. It’s more of a victory for her if he fights it a little bit, makes her smile a little wider. But he wants to give her what she wants. So, he puts one hand at the small of her back and grasps her hand with the other. She winds her other hand around his neck.

“I told you so,” she says, grinning.

He looks at her, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“I told you one day I’d get you on the dancefloor,” she says.

He’s hit with the memory and feels his breath catch for a minute, becoming the nervous boy he used to be for just a moment. “You remember that?” he asks softly, in something like astonishment. He treasures all his memories of her and even now, he doesn’t imagine they were quite as potent for her as they always were for him.

“Of course I do, Jon,” she says, smiling. “I didn’t understand it at the time. But when you danced with me and I told you to look at my face, and you did, the way you looked at me—it made me feel beautiful.”

“You were beautiful. Then and now. I’ve always loved you, even if it was wrong. I love you,” he tells her.

His eyes were dark and soft when he looked at her. He looked at her like she was a gift from Heaven just for him.

“I love you too, Jon. And I don’t care if it’s wrong. I feel like... God, you’re going to laugh,” she says and ducks her head down, the pinkest blush dusting her cheeks.

“Hey,” he says softly, tilting her chin so she looks up at him. “Never.”

“I feel like we were meant to be,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she smiles at him, suddenly shy again.

Overcome, he draws in a deep breath. “I feel that way too.” Damn, if she wasn’t his half-sister, he would _marry_ her. Well, if she’d let him. But the way she looks at him, like he’s everything she ever wanted, he thinks she would.

Dancing with her now, he thinks he feels something he hasn’t felt since they were children. Actually, it might be something he’s never felt before at all.

Peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter's pretty short, but I hoped you enjoyed it anyway! You might notice I've given a chapter count now--two more chapters as I wrap things up. As I already noted, there's not a lot of plot here, but there will be a bit more plot happening in the next chapter. The final chapter will serve as an epilogue of sorts. Thanks for reading! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa face an unexpected revelation.

Sam approached him two weeks after Littlefinger’s death, pulling him to the side for privacy. “I must speak with you,” Sam said, the look in his eyes letting Jon know this was something he may not want to hear.

“Sam, what’s going on?” he asked.

Sam’s eyes nervously flitted about the room before they landed back on Jon. “It’s—I found something in Littlefinger’s files that I think you should see.”

Jon stiffened. Did the man have something on Sansa? What had he done? “I should get Sansa,” he tells his friend and starts to walk away when Sam grabbed hold of his arm.

“Jon, I’m not sure you’ll want her there. You might want to be alone.” Sam’s eyes were imploring and cautious at the same time. It gave Jon a feeling he couldn’t name. It seemed this wasn’t about Sansa. But still, Sansa helped him through things—he wanted her.

“Anything you have to show or tell me you can do in front of Sansa,” Jon said.

Sam sighed and nodded. “I supposed I should have expected that,” he chuckled. “You two can meet me in my office.”

\---

The only time Jon can remember Sam looking more nervous than he does now, as Jon and Sansa enter the room, is when Gilly was giving birth. It makes Jon clasp Sansa’s hand tighter, and he feels his heartrate slow as she squeezes his hand back reassuringly.

Sam clears his throat, his eyes flitting between them and his laptop. “So, it seems that after you and Sansa left the Vale, Littlefinger was looking into your background, likely trying to find information on you,” he trailed off.

“Spit it out, Sam,” Jon says, knowing if he doesn’t push his friend, he’ll stammer on uselessly for God knows how long.

“In his files, he has your birth certificate,” Sam tells him, and he turns the laptop toward Jon. Jon leans forward to scrutinize the document. He’d never seen it before. Being the son of a man in organized crime meant he didn’t have much need for documents. He didn’t work a regular job, that was for sure. Jon looks at it for a moment, uncomprehending.

His mother, Lyanna Snow, had died of a drug overdose when Jon was about six months old. He obviously didn’t remember her. But then he sees it, the space for the father was left blank. Jon shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” Jon says, looking back at Sam. Now Sansa is leaning forward to look as well.

“Well, your mother didn’t list a father,” Sam says.

“I can see that, Sam,” Jon says more harshly than he intended.

He sighs. “I’m sorry Sam. I just—I don’t understand.” Jon knew that his father and Lyanna had ended things badly. His father had been having an affair with her, after all. At some point, he’d decided to break things off, and Jon knew, mostly from what he’d been told from his uncle Benjen, that Lyanna had taken it hard. But he was surprised that she wouldn’t list him on the birth certificate. When she got pregnant, his father wanted to be involved from the start, or so he’d been told.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sam says in his understanding way. “I suppose it could be that your mother was still angry with your father.”

“But he was there for her,” Sansa says, repeating what Jon had been told. They’d not spent much time talking about the rift Jon had caused in her parents’ marriage. Catelyn never really forgave his existence. Sansa had not taken after her mother, but he also felt no need to disparage Sansa’s mother to her, much as it was still a sore spot for him.

“He was,” Sam says, turning the laptop back to look at it and clicked some keys. “But there’s more,” he says. He turns the computer back to Jon and Sansa. There are pictures of his mother and father. In one, she is kissing his cheek as he wraps his arm around her. Jon’s breath catches. He’d seen only a few photos of her—but none so candid. None where she looked so happy. None where she was with his father.

But then he notices a few other pictures. His mother with another man, a man with hair so blond it looks white, and his mother is clinging to his side as well. She looks to be the same age as the photos with his father.

“I think,” Sam says cautiously, “Littlefinger was trying to figure out if your father was, well…really your father.”

Jon shakes his head. He can’t quite describe or explain the emotions he’s feeling. He feels Sansa’s hand rubbing his back soothingly, and it gives him some comfort. “Explain, please, Sam.”

“Well, it looks like your mother may have been involved with two men around the time she became pregnant with you. From what Littlefinger found, she’d also been seeing a man named Rhaegar Targaryen,” Sam says, looking anywhere but at Jon.

“Targaryen?” Jon asks. The Targaryens were an old crime family, but they’d been gone for decades. From what Jon knew, they had been so violent and cruel that they made enemies of virtually everyone in the underground world in which they operated. It didn’t help that they had a penchant for burning people alive. It eventually caused their downfall. So, his mother had been involved with two gangsters, from opposing families.

Sam nods. “He died in a drive-by shooting when your mother was pregnant.”

“That doesn’t mean he was my father. _My_ father took me in, he was involved and when she died, he took me into his home.” Jon couldn’t imagine his father would have done so unless he knew Jon was his. Did he know about Rhaegar? Was his father involved in Rhaegar’s death?

“Did my father know about the birth certificate?” he asks.

Sam shrugs helplessly, shaking his head. “I don’t know for certain, Jon. He probably knew about the birth certificate, because he did take you in. Without being listed as your father, he probably had to pay some people off to keep you with him,” Sam says.

A powerful man like Ned Stark could do so easily, Jon thought. “And Rhaegar?”

“It’s hard to imagine he _didn’t_ know, what with the circles they both ran in, but I can’t tell you for certain, Jon,” Sam says.

Jon had to agree with that. Fighting over women, boasting about conquests, using them as ways to hurt one another was unfortunately the kind of thing that happened all the time in their world. Much like Littlefinger, he thought bitterly. It disgusted Jon, and it was one of the things he hated about this world.

“Father loved you, Jon,” Sansa says, turning him toward her and cupping his cheek. He leaned into her hand, her cool, soothing touch helping anchor him in the storm of his questions. She somehow knew what he needed to hear.

He smiles at her and nods. “I know,” he says. He looks back to Sam, seeing a look on his friend’s face he can’t quite decipher. Is he looking at the way Jon and Sansa touch? Is he thinking something must be done with this information?

“Sam, what am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, because he truthfully doesn’t know, and he somehow thinks his friend, having found this knowledge first, may have an answer.

“That’s up to you, Jon. I just thought you had a right to know. If you wanted to take a DNA test you could establish whether Ned was your real father, what with Sansa’s DNA to compare.”

Jon nearly winces at that. The fact that they are related never leaves him, exactly. But it feels odd to hear it in those terms. But he figures it’s too dangerous to do a DNA test, even privately, given the crimes he’s committed. He looks over at Sansa, who watches him tentatively, as if waiting for him to say something. “I don’t think that’s very practical, Sam. Given my line of work and all,” he says, coughing as he tries to swallow back the emotion in his throat. He’s not even sure what he’s feeling.

“I figured as much. But I thought you should know,” he repeats. “You’re not legally Ned Stark’s son.”

The statement rings strange to his ears. Hurtful, maybe. But Ned had been gone for so long, and he was the man that had raised him. His father in every way that mattered. It didn’t seem to change much of anything, as far as he could tell. But something more is lingering in the back of his mind. Something he can’t quite put his finger on. He hears Sansa gasp next to him, looks over to her. She’s staring at Sam.

“Then that means…” she starts.

Sam nods. “Legally speaking,” his friend looks back at him, “you’re not brother and sister.”

So that was it. What he couldn’t quite put together himself, not when the revelations were washing over him. He doesn’t know what to do or what to think. “Thanks Sam,” he says curtly. He grabs Sansa’s hand, pulling her with him and flees.

\---

Sansa watches him pacing in his room. Truthfully, now it is _their_ room. She hasn’t been in her own bed for weeks now. If anyone has noticed, they’d not said anything. He hasn’t said a word since they’d left Sam and neither has she.

She thinks she should give him time to process. She has no idea what to say, either. She has no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s disconcerting after all their time together as they’d grown to understand one another so intimately. So, she just watches him continue to pace. Eventually, he stops and looks at her. His face is soft. His eyes are fierce.

“Would you marry me?” he asks her.

Sansa sputters. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been that. “What?”

She hates that this is her answer. She doesn’t want it to be. But she’s honestly not sure if she’s heard him right or misunderstood.

He steps toward her: “Would you marry me?” His eyes never leave hers, staring deeply. “I know we never would have been able to before, but now we’re not legally siblings. So, would you?”

Her mind reels. She wants to say yes, but this is all happening so fast. She’s afraid he’s not thought this through, that he’s impulsively reacting to what they’ve learned. “Is that what you want, Jon? Do you want to marry me?”

Jon smiles slightly, timidly. He takes her hands in his, looks down at them as he intertwines their fingers, then looks back up at her. “Of course I do, Sansa.”

“Are you sure you’re not just having a kneejerk reaction—”

He cuts her off, shaking his head: “No. It’s something I’ve thought about. If you weren’t my sister. I told you I’ve always loved you, Sansa. It’s always been you.”

“Jon,” she whispers, biting her lip. She feels tears coming.

“Sansa, will you marry me?” he asks, and looks about the room for a moment. Then he is dropping to his knee and it’s more than she can take. He looks up at her, earnest and open and a little (adorably) awkward. This man, her brother, yes, but who had become so much more: her partner, her best friend, her love. He is still staring at her, nervous but hopeful, like she is the answer to everything, and she is overwhelmed with the love she feels for him.

She throws herself into his arms, nearly knocking him back, but he catches her. (He always does, she realizes).

“Yes, Jon, yes.” He holds her tightly, and she feels his ragged exhale against her. One hand moves to run through her hair.

“I love you so much, Sansa,” he says quietly. She pulls back slightly so she can look at him, happy and overcome and tears like her own shining in his eyes. She can’t make sense of it. Things like this, good things, never happen to her. There has to be a catch somewhere.

“We could still be siblings, you know,” she offers.

He chuckles. “It hasn’t stopped us before,” he says, leaning in to take her mouth in a soft kiss.

But now she begins to really think about it. How it would work, to be married and out in the open. When they part from the kiss she has to ask him.

“But, Jon, everyone here knows us as brother and sister, how do we handle that?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I guess we could explain that I’m not your brother,” he said, running a hand through his curls.

“Tell them about the birth certificate?”

Jon nods. Sansa thinks on it. It still seems awfully complicated to her. “And what—do we say we know who your father is—a Targaryen? It’s not like we can get a DNA test and if we did—”

“It could confirm we are siblings,” Jon finished the thought.

“Not to mention expose us if anything criminal ever gets linked to us,” she says and Jon nods.

He looks deep in thought and begins to get up from the floor, helping Sansa to her feet as well. He puts his hands on his hips and sighs. “And if I say I’m a Targaryen, would people here hate me? Kill me?”

She steps toward him. “Jon, no. Your men are loyal, and they love you. Howland loves you, you’re safe here.”

“Maybe from them—but the rank and file? If word gets out that I’m a Targaryen—people hated them, Sansa, and we don’t even know if it’s true.”

Sansa feels her heart sinking the more they talk, and she looks to the floor. “So, I guess we can’t marry after all,” she says, and she thinks it makes sense. She knew it was too good to be true.

She felt his hands on her face as he lifted her gaze to him. He’d moved close without her even noticing, and now he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. His wrist was nearly healed now. “No, Sansa, I am going to marry you. Nothing is going to stop me. The only good thing that can come of this is you. You’re the only thing that makes sense and I love you. I’m not letting this opportunity pass me by,” he says. He sighs, runs his finger through a lock of her hair. “Honestly, I’m still probably your brother. I look more like our father, and he did take me in. But I’ll be damned if I don’t use this loophole to make you mine.”

She smiles. She doesn’t know if he’s right about that or not. She decides that it might be better for her not to know. “I’m already yours,” she says.

He smiles and kisses her gently. “You know what I mean. I’m going to make you my wife.”

“How, Jon?”

He breathes deeply. “We leave,” he says simply, the conviction in his eyes surprising her. Leave everything here behind?

“You really want to leave? Just like that?”

He considers for a moment. “There’s nothing that says we have to stay here, Sansa. Littlefinger is gone. The Lannister family is gone. The Stark estate in Winterfell,” he says sadly, “that’s gone too. I’ve been here by the hospitality of Howland and the Reeds, but I’ve no interest in trying to build House Stark from the ground up, do you?”

She shook her head. Their way of life was exhausting, even if it was all they ever knew. Now that they had no one after them, they didn’t have to keep living this way if they didn’t want. “I don’t.”

He nods. “So, we either resign ourselves to being guests of Greywater for the indefinite future, or we make our own home.”

_Home._ Sansa thinks of that word, once lost and now familiar. She remembers how Jon had told her they would be together and how that was home, the night he found her. She knew it to be true. Now, they needed to figure out what that truly meant for them.

She looks at him. “Where will we go?” she asks.

He smiles at her. “I love it when you say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realize this is a bit of an odd choice. I wrestled with whether I wanted a parentage reveal for the story, so this kind of lets me have my cake and eat it too. Plus, on the show, I felt surprised that characters other than Bran mostly accepted the parentage reveal with little uncertainty, even though they didn't have any DNA tests (riding a dragon notwithstanding). I thought it might be an interesting reversal to have a modern setting where the parentage *could* be definitively settled, but because of the circumstances they choose not to. Is it terribly realistic? Eh, probably not. But I could see Ned paying people off. I just wanted to give Jon and Sansa a happy ending after all the darkness they've faced, so hopefully it still feels earned in the story. Next chapter is the epilogue and should be up either tomorrow or the next day. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Jon and Sansa build their new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all who have been reading and sticking with this story! This is the longest thing I think I have ever written, and it's a bit hard for me to say goodbye to these characters and this world. However, if you might be interested, I'm working on a Canon-Era Prince Jon Targaryen Jonsa fic that I'll probably be posting a bit of soon. My college has moved online because of covid-19 so I may have a lot of time to write lol. Let us all remember to stay safe, keep calm, and wash our hands! I hope you find this to be a satisfying end for these two!

They marry in Alberta. Jon laughs lightly when Tormund claps him on the back and tells him Canada is the “True North.”

Truth be told, his laugh comes easily. He can’t stop his grin knowing that Sansa is to be his wife. He _never_ would have thought such a thing was possible. Never imagined he could be so lucky to lie down next to her every night and wake up with her in his arms every morning.

But when the doors to the tiny chapel open and Sansa is walking down the aisle with Brienne at her side, he thinks this was how it was meant to be. She is breathtakingly beautiful in her white lace gown, her red hair flowing down her back, her cheeks lightly flushed, her eyes blue and brilliant with ocean depths, the sweetest smile on her lips. They exchange their vows, place the rings on each other’s fingers, and Jon pulls her in for a kiss that makes his knees go weak, clutching her to him. Perhaps it is too much tongue for the setting, but Jon could not give a single fuck. He barely hears the clapping or Tormund’s cheers; it is like he and Sansa are the only ones in the room.

They have been living here for three months, establishing residency. Jon’s working as a carpenter and Sansa is taking college classes—her student visa allowing them entry. When she graduates she plans to work in home healthcare. Jon thinks it’s perfect for her, she’s always wanted to take care of people. Plus, she tells him, becoming a professional caregiver will make it easier for them to become citizens. They’ve bought a small home with three bedrooms with the last of the Stark family money. No one here knows them as brother and sister, and they live freely.

Some of their friends have flown up for the ceremony. He doesn’t think any of them were surprised when they first moved and told them of their plans. Tormund, Brienne, Sam (Gilly stayed behind with Little Sam, not wanting to take the baby on a flight), Gendry, and Meera (no Howland—too old for international travel, he’d said, but he sends his love). They’d invited Ed, too, as they both consider him a close friend. But Jon can’t say he’s surprised when Ed declines. He knows his friend had feelings for Sansa, and despite the jealousy Jon’s had about it, he can’t imagine being in Ed’s shoes and feels a little guilty about hurting him. God knows _he_ could never watch Sansa marry another man. But he knows Ed is happy for them, and he’s sure Ed will find someone to call his own.

Somehow, Jon and Sansa had decided they wanted to keep a few wedding traditions, as unconventional as their relationship is, and Brienne’s blush when she catches the bouquet (it was either her or Meera) makes Sansa smile. “I’m wearing her down!” Tormund yells out joyously.

Brienne closes her eyes in annoyance. “You’re not!” she calls back. But Sansa talks with her friend and watches her. She thinks there is something there, even if Brienne denies it.

“What do you think of him?” Sansa asks her. If anyone deserves to be loved and worshipped, she believes it is her friend.

Brienne shakes her head and rolls her eyes, huffing in irritation. “He’s impossible and exhausting,” she says. But Sansa _swears_ she sees a little smile Brienne’s trying to suppress and the blush colors her features again. Sansa laughs.

“Well, you never know,” she tells her.

Brienne looks over at Tormund for a split-second and sighs. “Maybe,” she mutters so quietly Sansa almost doesn’t hear it, but the look on her face tells Sansa she really did say it.

“Wife,” Jon whispers in her ear as he twirls her on the dancefloor. God, it feels so good to say it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever fall off from the high he has knowing Sansa is his _wife._

“Husband,” she whispers back, and he grins against her neck.

It’s pretty damn close to perfect, Jon thinks. The only thing haunting him is imagining if Bran, Rickon, and Arya were here. He wants them to be here to celebrate with them, though he supposes they probably would be horrified by Jon and Sansa’s relationship. He can’t help but imagine it a little, all the same. They’ll stay in touch with their friends at Greywater, make sure that if Bran, Rickon, and Arya turn up, they’ll have a way to find them. But he knows they are likely lost forever, and he pushes the thought away. He loves them and always will, but for now he just wants to feel happy. And when Sansa kisses him, holding her to him like she’ll never let him go, he is.

\---

That night Jon pounds her into the bed, makes her cum three times before he finishes, and as soon as possible they start all over again. Jon’s insatiable, he knows, but Sansa, thrillingly, appears the same. No, he will never get enough of her—her beautiful body, the way she moans for him, the taste of her, the way it feels to be inside her.

He thinks one day they will have children. They’ve talked about it. He knows it’s risky, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. His fantasies of having a family with her since he was young never went away.

Sansa is riding him, and he watches her move atop him in all her glory, grabbing her ass and bucking up into her, meeting her thrusts. He groans at the feeling of her as she leans down, touches her forehead to his, their panting breaths matching one another. He pulls her hair slightly, and she whines. She loves it when he does that. He loves it too.

“Cum for me, sweet sister,” he says, and she does, spectacularly. He swallows her moans with his mouth and tongue as he feels her cunt clamping down on him, pulling his release from him as all the breath leaves his body. It is incredible. _She_ is incredible.

She catches her breath, stays atop him for a while. He runs light circles along her back. He loves the feeling of her naked body against his own. “You _still_ call me sister?” she eventually asks him incredulously.

He laughs. “I didn’t hear you complaining,” he says, kissing the crown of her head. No, truth is, it still makes her cum for him when he calls her sister or calls himself her brother. Every. Single. Time.

And he can’t help but enjoy it too, strange as it is. He’s always thought of her in a way a brother shouldn’t think of a sister and he supposes on some level he still does. The thought that his wife is also his sister excites him, even if he knows it’s twisted.

Maybe she is. Maybe she isn’t. It isn’t going to be resolved and he’ll never know for sure who his biological father is. But Sansa helps him remember what he already knew in his heart: that his true father is the man that loved him and raised him. He doesn’t dwell on it. He’d rather put the past behind them as much as possible. He can’t deny that the ability to marry Sansa lessened whatever blow he’d initially felt.

“I’ll call you wife too,” he says, smirking at her as she looks up at him with big eyes. _Damn_ , those eyes will always undo him.

“You better,” she says, smiling, and leans forward to kiss him. He holds her tight, kisses her back ferociously, and already can feel himself start to harden.

Sansa must feel it too: “Really, Jon? Again?” she laughs.

“You know what you do to me,” he says in a low rough voice. Suddenly he flips them, holding her beneath him and pinning her wrists to the mattress, urging her legs apart with his own. Her gaze up at him is heated.

“Show me,” she says. Like that first time. He kisses her and thrusts into her, and she gasps as he moans into her neck.

“I love you,” she gasps as he slams into her harder and faster.

He never could have imagined it, no. But he knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Ed will definitely find his ladylove in the future. I also wanted to end things on a hopeful note for Tormund/Brienne. And Jon/Sansa keep their incest kink cause I'm naughty like that. Thank you again to everyone who showed love for this story and I really hope you like the ending <3\. I just love these two together.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly know nothing about organized crime, but this is a character-driven story so we can hopefully just go with it. I know this first chapter is short but the second one is longer and should be up soon! Thanks for reading!


End file.
